Behind the Closed Door
by JennaEf
Summary: Outside their flat, Sherlock is always leading, and John is always following. But everything changes the moment when the front door shuts behind them... Strictly bromance. Rated T for safety. Disclamer: do not own.
1. Prologue: Wishful Thinking

**A/N: so, a new story... Its plot bunny came out of nowhere and managed to nestle in my head quite comfortably. Honestly, I have no idea where it going to lead me, but... why not? Anyway, tell me what do you think. Oh, and by the way, ideas and suggestions appreciated :)**

**Also, a huge THANK YOU to Pilikia18 for looking this story through for me :)  
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It crosses my mind for the first time when we're at the crime scene. Sherlock is his usual self - strolling around, rattling out his deductions, winding up Anderson and Donovan and openly mocking Lestrade. There is a familiar long-suffering expression on the Detective Inspector's face, and he shoots me The Look. The one that's clearly saying: 'Do something, PLEASE'.

I hold his gaze and shrug my shoulders slightly, and Lestrade rolls his eyes. We've been through this so many times that I had actually lost count. There's nothing I can do at the moment, except maybe bodily drag Sherlock away from the crime scene and lecture him about the manners.

Been there, done that. Nothing good came out of it, believe me. My flatmate proceeded to listen to me and then, not saying a word, turned around on his heels and marched back to the crime scene.

Needless to say, after that episode Sherlock decided to punish me for such an 'inappropriate behaviour' and resolved to not speaking with me for an entire week. Truth to be said, I wasn't exactly saddened by that turn of events – because, I have to tell you, sometimes Sherlock's habit to think out loud becomes a tad… overwhelming. And of course, our genius absolutely failed to make any conclusions from that situation, so I had no other choice than to simply drop the subject.

But now, seeing Lestrade's tired face and bloodshot eyes, I can't help but wonder what it feels like – to have the ability to make the great Sherlock Holmes submit willingly and do everything he had been told to do. Wishful thinking, of course, but…

And half an hour later, when we finally leave the crime scene - Sherlock practically flying down the stairs in his haste to return to Baker Street and conduct a new experiment with the mysterious substance which he'd found under the victim's fingernails, and me lagging slightly behind to apologise for Sherlock's arrogant behaviour – the idea already pretty much finds its cosy little place in the corner of my mind. This plan is clearly going to require thorough research and preparation, and for obvious reasons I'm going to keep it quiet. I don't know how it may turn out, but I intend to do my best, so everyone could benefit from the situation. If I succeed, it definitely will be worth the wound; if not… Well, let's just say that there are risks in life that should be taken anyway…


	2. Chapter 1: The question of self respect

"John, you are not listening!" Sherlock says with irritation, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "And it's not the first time. What's going on?"

I shake off the daze and glance at my companion apologetically. "Sorry. Got carried away."

"I can see that," he retorts sarcastically. "You haven't answered my question."

"I guess I'm a little tired, that's all. I had barely slept the last two days," I say honestly and wait for his reaction.

"I distinctly remember telling you that working night shifts while we're on the case wasn't the best idea," my flatmate quirks up an eyebrow. "But you didn't listen."

"That's because I need this job, Sherlock," I reply calmly, desperately trying to keep my raising temper in check. Why had I ever believed that he will understand?

"What for, John? We have enough money for both of us."

"Correction, Sherlock – YOU have enough money. And you know full well that I will never agree to live at your expense. It's the question of self-respect, you know."

Sherlock's expression hardens abruptly. "I had always thought that we are equal in this, John," he says flatly. "Had I missed something?"

I open my mouth, ready to deliver a cutting retort, and right at that moment Lestrade decides to interrupt us, clearing his throat loudly.

"Sorry for intruding upon your discussion, gentlemen, but we are kind of busy here…"

Sherlock shoots a scorching glance in my direction and turns away, following the Detective Inspector back to the crime scene. "We will continue this conversation when we get home, John," he throws over his shoulder coldly.

"Fine," I say archly. "But now I need to sleep, so I'm leaving. I will wait you at the flat."

"As you wish."

And we part ways, going in the opposite direction: Sherlock – to the crime scene with the purpose of solving the case, and me - back to the Baker Street, to think the whole situation over…

* * *

><p>Sighing in frustration, I close my eyes and lean back into the armchair, relaxing my body completely.<p>

Who am I kidding? It's not going to work. Not with Sherlock, anyway.

Sherlock…

To tell the truth, my recent absent-mindedness has a reason. I had finally started researching my 'subject' almost a week ago, and I have to tell you I was really shocked at first. I mean the amount of material… It can really send your head spinning.

Oh, sorry, I haven't told you what exactly my subject is, have I? Ahem… Well…

Okay, John, quit babbling. Just say it.

Domination and submission.

More specifically, me as a Dom and Sherlock as a Sub.

Funny, isn't it? The most improbable thing in the world. The thought of Sherlock submitting for anybody… Even Mycroft Holmes, his brother, doesn't have such power over his sibling. And Mycroft is the British government himself, I need to remind you.

So why I can't get that insane idea out of my head?

Oh, and let me assure you, I don't mean anything kinky. I'm straight, and Sherlock is asexual, so nothing along these lines. More like a happy, loving family, me and him. Selfish, isn't it?

Maybe. But somebody has to take a good care of the world's only consulting detective. Because behind that sparkling façade lies an abyss – dark, deep, and at the same time terrifyingly beautiful. Believe me, I know that for certain. Because I had looked right into it one day. Teetered on the edge, was nearly pulled in, but managed to hold my ground. More than that, dragged Sherlock out to safety with me, saved him. Hadn't expected him to be grateful, and he wasn't, but at least he stayed alive. And that's the main thing that counts in my book.

Alright, back to the subject. You see, the main thing between us, that I'm opting for, is trust. Which, in my opinion, definitely includes my ability to take care of him in any situation, and his willingness to accept my decision without questioning it. I think I have the caring component down pat, but as for Sherlock's acceptance… That part of the bargain definitely requires some work.

The problem is that Sherlock ALWAYS questions anything and everything. Except maybe the grand rules that he had set for himself, such as: "Rule number one: I'm never wrong" and "Rule number two: If I'm wrong, see Rule number one." When it comes to work, this logic most definitely applies to any situation. But in everyday life things are not so simple. Sometimes they require the ability to see the situation from a different perspective. And regrettably, Sherlock often lacks this ability, despite all his intelligence. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming him. It's just a way of voicing my major concerns, I guess.

And let's not forget the other side of the story – me. Am I able to do it? Do I have it in me – the power to tame Sherlock, to shape him into slightly different person – at least while we're at home? Is it going to affect our working relationship as well? Can it ruin us?

There are so many things to consider, so many questions to ponder that my head actually starts to hurt. Deciding to take a break and make myself a cup of tea, I close my laptop, push myself up from the armchair, turn around – and find myself almost nose-to-nose with Sherlock. Giving a startled cry, I stumble back involuntarily and glare at my sneaky flatmate. How come that I hadn't heard him returning?

Sherlock just continues to stand here, head tilted slightly to the right, his questioning gaze fixed firmly on my face. Suddenly a thought pops into my mind: How long had he been standing here? Had he been able to see what I've been reading? And if he had, then what's going on right now in that magnificent brain of his?

Finally he moves, clearing his throat quietly and holding out a hand with a cup of tea – for me, obviously. I accept it gratefully and take a sip. The tea is cold already, so I guess that fact answers my first question clearly. Sherlock blinks, stuffs his hands in his pockets – he still hadn't taken his coat off – and starts to speak. One single question and an eyebrow quirked up.

"Is there something you want to tell me about, John?"

**Sorry for another relatively short chapter. I guess I'm still getting used to my new story. The next chapter will be much longer, I promise :)**

** Anyway, tell me what you think. Oh, and here's another question: do you want Sherlock's POV in this story? Or someone else's? (In addition to John's, of course – he is the main storyteller here).**


	3. Chapter 2: Pros and Cons

The first thought that comes to my mind is to deny everything. Turn it into a joke, change the subject, pretend that it never happened. But Sherlock is still looking at me expectantly, and, remembering all things I'd read about this week, I decide to lay my cards on the table, so to speak.

"As a matter of fact yes, Sherlock," I admit honestly. "But before I tell you everything, I think we should have a snack, okay?"

"Is that the attempt to distract me, John? You know perfectly well that I don't eat while I'm thinking."

"There's no need to decide right away, so I think it's perfectly safe for you to eat something."

Sherlock contemplates my words for a few moments, and then nods slightly, starting to pull his coat off. "Okay, John."

"Actually, I was thinking about going out," I elaborate, and my flatmate considers my request briefly.

"No," he says finally, hanging his coat on the accustomed hook at the back of the living room door. "I don't want us to have that type of conversation in public place. We can order a takeout from the restaurant, if you want something special."

"There are private rooms in some restaurants, you know," I say pointedly. "We can be completely alone."

"I said no," Sherlock bits off with irritation. "Why are you so persistent? What's wrong with us staying in the flat?"

"Nothing. I just thought…"

"What are you afraid of, John?" my friend interrupts, frowning.

"Me? Afraid? What gave you that idea, Sherlock?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. Trust Sherlock to get straight to the core of the problem.

"Mostly your fidgeting," the detective remarks, pulling the phone out of his jacket's pocket. "Where from?"

"Sorry, what?" I manage to utter.

Sherlock briefly closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation. "The food, John. Where from do you prefer it? Or what kind?"

"Mediterranean, or something like that, I guess," I reply carefully, and my flatmate starts typing away.

"Is Greek okay?" he enquires, glancing at me briefly and returning his gaze to the screen.

"More then," I agree and move into the kitchen to clear the table.

"Not there," Sherlock says, halting me in my tracks. "In the living room. More comfortable."

"Only if you expect me to clean it first," I object.

"You were going to clean the kitchen table anyway," he points out. "What's the difference?"

"Fair point," I pivot on my heels and make a beeline to the living room table.

"Good," Sherlock comments, finally tearing his eyes from the phone's screen. "And I'm done, by the way."

'_So much for your intention to be in control,_' my inner voice smirks, causing me to stop and turn towards my flatmate.

"Good. You can lend me a hand with cleaning, then," I say calmly. "After all, it's mostly your stuff."

Sherlock frowns slightly, but joins me at the table, sorting out his belongings and putting them away. My things are being pointedly left untouched, though.

'_Small steps and smooth moves, John. You shouldn't expect him to behave as you wish right away,' _the inner voice comments, and I begin to wonder if I'd managed to finally lose it.

Deciding not to dwell on that subject right now, I clean away the rest of the stuff from the table. Just in time, by the way, because I hear a knock at the door the second after the table is finally cleared.

"That must be the delivery," Sherlock notes, coming over to the window to take a look outside.

"Good. I take care of the plates and cutlery; you get the door," I declare and move into the kitchen, practically sensing the weight of my friend's gaze on my back. "Problems, Sherlock?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," there's a slight noise behind me, and I have no doubt that my friend's arms are crossed on his chest now. "You're acting strange, John."

"Am I?" still not looking at him, I start to rummage through cupboards. "In what way?"

The second knock prevents Sherlock from answering. Huffing in annoyance, my flatmate stalks towards the door, disappearing downstairs and reappearing five minutes later with the deliveryman in tow.

"Just drop everything on the table," Sherlock commands, locating his wallet on the mantelpiece and paying for the delivery. "John, have you got some change to spare?"

Very clever move, Sherlock. "Of course," I tip the deliveryman and see him to the door, then run back upstairs. "Equals, Sherlock?"

He is totally absorbed in the process of laying the food out. "I've got the impression that this is the point you're trying to prove here, John."

"Not exactly. But let's eat first and talk later," I suggest, keeping my voice soft and even.

My friend looks at me intently for a few moments, and then nods. "Fine. Shall we, then?"

"Of course," I take a seat at the table and Sherlock goes to the chair across of mine. "Enjoy your meal."

"You too, John," he answers, grabbing his fork. "I hope that my choice pleases you..."

* * *

><p>Surprisingly enough, my flatmate joins me in the process of clearing the table after our meal is finished. He doesn't look at me and keeps silent, but I clearly see from his posture that he's not pleased with the situation at all. So when our little cleaning operation is finished, I decide to distract him by putting my arm around his shoulders and escorting him to the sofa. He looks at me briefly, but doesn't protest; when we reach our destination he flops down onto the sofa, gets himself comfortable and waits for me to get into my accustomed chair.<p>

But I'm not done with surprising him yet, and, as I lift his feet in order to settle down at the end of the sofa, Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, then widen a bit more as I place his feet on my lap.

However, he regains his composure quite fast, and proceeds to answer the question I had asked before the arrival of a deliveryman.

"You're insistent on trying to order me around, John. I would like to know why," Sherlock declares, steepling his fingers and fixing me with the piercing stare.

"I wasn't ordering, I just asked you to help me."

"It certainly didnt't sound like a request, John. I'm assuming it's all connected to the materials you've been researching the last week?" he enquires, raising an eyebrow.

There's no point in trying to hide something from you, Sherlock, is there? "Does that mean that you have bothered to read them already?" I counter. "And by the way, I distinctly remember our agreement about you respecting my personal space..."

"You leave your laptop in the living room quite often. And the living room was considered to be a common area, if I remember correctly."

So he definitely has read them. Well, maybe it was better that way. No need for tip-toeing around the subject. "And the small issue of the password still doesn't tell you anything?"

Sherlock snorts. "Aside from the fact that you're trying to be inventive – no. Oh, and I should definitely advise you to try out 'Purple Hell'. At least it will make my life a little more interesting."

He's winding you up, John. Keep calm; don't give in. "Is that supposed to be a joke, Sherlock?" I ask, feeling the slight twitches in my left hand. So much for trying to stay composed, then. Damn.

Sherlock sits up abruptly, bending his legs and hugging them to his chest. "Initially – yes. But judging by your left hand…"

"Don't even start that, Sherlock. Mycroft was quite enough for me, thank you very much."

"Alright, I won't. But that doesn't change the fact that your hand is trembling. Therefore I can safely assume that you aren't pleased with me now."

He's not only winding me up, he's trying to make me lose my temper, I realise suddenly. But why is he doing that? What's the point?

Oh. Of course. I should've guessed. "Are you testing me, Sherlock?" I ask carefully, and his face lights up with the broad smile for a few moments.

"Finally," he chuckles. "Took you long enough. Still… quite impressive, I should say."

Pushing the limits, Sherlock-style. Actually, I was supposed to act like that, not him, but we'll work on that. At least it shows that he isn't opposed to the idea. "So you've been doing some reading too, I presume. And what's your opinion on that matter?"

"Amusing. But the more important question is why it started to interest you all of a sudden."

"I kind of liked the idea," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but obviously not quite making it, because my friend frowns slightly.

"And you're thinking that we can try that out, aren't you?"

Straight to the point, then. I can do that. "As a matter of fact, I do. Is that a problem?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly aren't smiling anymore. "Actually, yes. I'm not interested, John, not in the slightest. You want to play games – fine. But not with me. I've got enough on my plate to waste the time on such pointless things."

"Pointless?" I enquire bluntly.

"For me – yes. I can perfectly understand your motives in wanting this, but I should disappoint you, I'm afraid. Because I've no intention to satisfy them whatsoever, John."

"And my motives are…"

"Self-assertion as a primary motive, obviously, and the secondary… You actually want to change ME. For my own good, I suppose. Sorry, not going to happen. I like the things as they are now."

I wait for him to finish, then push myself up from the sofa and turn to face him. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, apart from one thing," I say calmly, even managing to smile a little. "I don't need to assert myself, and even if I did, I wouldn't have tried to do that at YOUR expense. As for changing you – again, even if I had wanted to do that, it would have been, as you've already said, absolutely pointless. You want to know why? I'll tell you. To put it simply, with all your intelligence you still lack one very important thing. And unfortunately, that thing can't be thought here…" I reach out and touch his forehead lightly, "It should be felt here," now I place my palm over my heart. "But sometimes it takes courage to let yourself feel. And that's exactly the thing you are incapable of, Sherlock."

I turn around and slowly make my way towards the stairs, suddenly feeling spent and defeated. Well, at least I have tried.

"John," my flatmate calls after me as I finally reach the door. "John, wait. I didn't mean…"

"Don't, Sherlock," I say, not bothering to stop. "Just don't. You've said enough already."

"But…"

"Tomorrow, Sherlock," I say tiredly. "We'll talk about that tomorrow, I promise."

He doesn't answer, and I make my way upstairs, get into my room and close the door. Not bothering to undress, I fall on my bed and close my eyes…

**A/N: Okay, a small confession here: John's phrase about '...can't be thought here... should be felt here' was taken from the movie "The Librarian: Quest for the Spear". No copyright infringement is intended, of course :) Also, "The Librarian" trilogy is one of my favorites. :D**


	4. Chapter 3: Misunderstood

Of course I should've known that Sherlock would not wait till morning.

I'm woken by the rather insistent poking and prodding, executed by my annoying flatmate.

"Wha-" I mumble, trying to comprehend what's going on, and squint at the alarm clock on my bedside table.

3 A.M. Great. I hadn't even got two hours of a decent sleep.

"Move over," Sherlock murmurs, and I obediently roll away, still not awake enough to start questioning him. A moment later I feel my bed dip slightly as my friend sits down, cross-legged. "I need to speak with you, John."

"Can it wait till morning?" I grumble, still clinging to the tendrils of sleep and hoping against hope that Sherlock will take the hint and kindly bugger off.

"No," he says firmly, and I give up, reaching to switch the bedside lamp on. Sherlock shields his eyes with his hand for a moment, and then fixes me with the penetrating gaze. "We hadn't finished our evening conversation, John."

I prop myself up and match his gaze with my own. "You stated your opinion quite clearly. There was no point to continue that conversation."

"I took the liberty to re-read those articles, John," Sherlock says as if he hadn't heard me. "And I can tell you exactly why it's not going to work."

Oh, here we go, another round of humiliation is looming on a horizon. "Yeah? Do enlighten me, please," the words come out harsher that I'd intended, and Sherlock frowns slightly.

"Is there a reason for you to be so hostile to me, John?" he enquires calmly. "I'm only trying to explain…"

"You'd already done that earlier. Why bother now?" I retort, gradually becoming irritated. I need my sleep, I've got to go to work in the morning; why wouldn't he leave me alone, damn it!

"I think that you don't completely understand why I refused your offer, John. Truth is..," he pauses, glancing down at his hands, and takes his time to study his fingernails, clearly debating in his mind what he should say next. Finally, he makes a decision and his eyes lock onto mine again. "I'm sorry, John, but I'm not attracted to you. Not like that. And therefore…"

WHAT? What the hell is he talking about?

"… Seeing as that type of relationship requires an intimate component, I don't think we should venture into such an agreement," he finishes boldly, and waits for my reaction.

Well, he'll probably need to wait longer, because right now I'm too busy getting my mind around the idea of him thinking…

My God, that's ridiculous.

Had he REALLY thought that I, of all people…

Chuckle bubbles its way up my throat, and I can't help but let it finally escape, covering my mouth with my hand. I'm positive that right now I'm blushing, but that's just so…

He frowns slightly, obviously not understanding what tipped me off. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I answer quickly, trying to regain my composure, and absolutely failing to do so, judging by Sherlock's deepening frown.

"Well?" he enquires, raising his eyebrow.

I finally manage to take myself under control and look at him incredulously. "Sherlock, during all the time that we're living together, had I ever mentioned that I want to pursue a physical relationship with you? I'm not taking into account our conversation at Angelo's, of course – that had been a pure misunderstanding on both our parts."

My friend takes a moment to think my question over, then shakes his head. "I don't think you did, John."

"Then what makes you think that I had become interested in that all of a sudden?"

"And you aren't?" Sherlock asks, his expression guarded.

"Of course not!" I exclaim with obvious relief. So that's what he was worried about? Good God! "What on earth gave you that idea?"

"Mostly your reading materials," Sherlock starts to relax, but there's something in his eyes… A shadow of emotion that I can't quite comprehend; but it disappears almost instantly, so I decide not to dwell on that subject. Meanwhile, he continues. "They were quite clear on that subject."

"For such a bright guy you can be incredibly obtuse sometimes, Sherlock," I say fondly. "Have you ever bothered to think above the obvious? I mean, you're the genius here…"

Sherlock cuts me off, obviously irritated. "What's your point, John?"

Okay, time for some truth. "The point is, my dear friend, that as much as I admire and love you..," that gets me a set of raised eyebrows. "Yes, Sherlock. LOVE, but not the kind that you're obviously thinking about. Anyway, as I was saying, as much as I admire and love you, I have absolutely no intention of shagging you, if that's what you're so worried about."

My friend's face remains impassive. "That's good to hear. But unfortunately, that fact brings forth another question: what's in it for you, then?"

"Let's just say that the whole concept – aside from the physical part, of course – sounds quite interesting. Not the domination and submission per se, but some aspects that living in such a relationship requires. Absolute trust, honesty, caring about your partner…"

"Are you implying that we don't have those… aspects, as you put it, in our relationship?" Sherlock asks in a low voice, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Of course not, Sherlock," I reply calmly. If he expected to frighten me, he clearly miscalculated. "We do have them, but it's in human nature to always want more, you know… Oh, and thank you for acknowledging that we have a relationship, by the way."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and studies me intently for a few moments, then pushes himself off the bed and straightens up to a full height. "I think I should let you rest, John," he announces with determination. "We can continue this conversation later, if that's okay with you."

So Sherlock-like. I should've expected that. "Of course, no problem. May I suggest for you to do the same? Rest, I mean."

"I can't promise for sure, John, but I'll try," he replies, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Have a nice sleep, my friend."

With that, he disappears from the room, and I reach out to turn off the light, glancing at the alarm clock. 3.30 A.M. Well, at least I have two hours and a half before I need to get up. Better not waste the time, then.

I turn on my side and, to my utter amazement, fall asleep almost instantly…

* * *

><p>Two hours and a half pass too quickly, and I'm woken again – this time by the alarm clock. Taking a shower to chase the sleep away, I get dressed and go downstairs to have a breakfast before leaving for work.<p>

The flat is quiet and dark; it seems like Sherlock finally decided to take my advice and get some rest. Which is obviously a good thing, because the ongoing case was draining his strength considerably, which started to worry me. Granted, he always has been overenthusiastic while on the case and totally apathetic for some time afterwards; but some cases place more strain on him than others and the ongoing one is a complete nightmare. Especially because I have loads of work at the clinic, and can seldom accompany my friend. And, adding the fact that I have dumped my idea-fix on him – you can imagine how guilty I feel. I even decide to whisk him out of London when the case will be closed, so he can rest properly. Not to mention that it will present the perfect opportunity to sort things out between us.

But my assumptions and plans shatter the moment when I finally get into the kitchen. There's an envelope on the kitchen table; and when I pick it up, I recognise Sherlock's elegant handwriting immediately. Opening the flap, I pull the letter out, unfold it and start to read.

'_John,_

_I'm sorry, but I must leave London. The case is closed, and I have already warned Lestrade not to bother you until my return. I will be unavailable during the entire week, so don't try to contact me. In case of emergency call Mycroft. I'll explain everything when I return._

_SH'_

I carefully fold the letter and place it back into the envelope, then put it into my jacket pocket. I really have no time for guessing right now, so I decide to think it over in the evening. Glancing at the watch on my wrist, I discover that I have less than ten minutes for breakfast; and that obviously means a simple cup of tea and a toast. For now, it should suffice; hopefully, if I'm lucky, I will be able to find a moment for a snack at the clinic…

* * *

><p>Of course, life makes its own corrections, changing my plans; and, despite my intentions, I'm not able to pay attention to Sherlock's letter over the next three days, simply because there isn't even a single moment for me to spare. The clinic's shifts are draining me completely and I barely have the strength to get back to the flat afterwards. And that's strange, actually, because it's the same amount of work as always. So why is it so damn hard for me to handle it all of a sudden?<p>

The answer to that question reveals itself only when I see Mycroft's black sedan, which is parked near the clinic's entrance. It happens on the evening of the third day, and the sudden realisation hits me with full force – I'm missing him, and that's the crux of my problem. I'm missing Sherlock.

The rear door of the car opens and Mycroft leans out, beckoning me towards him. I quickly cross the distance, and the older Holmes moves back inside the car, gracefully sliding over and patting the seat beside him. "Allow me to give you a lift home, John," Mycroft says politely, and I accept his offer, getting into the car with obvious relief. I'm really tired, and a lift home means that I have an opportunity to rest a little and maybe even get some information about Sherlock's whereabouts.

Mycroft, however, makes it clear that he's not going to reveal any information straight from the beginning. "No questions, John," he warns firmly. "Because I'm not at liberty to tell you anything, unfortunately. I'm sorry, John, but that's how it is going to be."

"Understood," I reply shortly, relaxing back into the seat. "Thanks for the lift, though. Oh, and I've got to warn you that I may fall asleep in the process, so feel free to give me a nudge when we get to Baker Street."

The politician smiles slightly. "Certainly, John. Get some rest."

"Thank you," I close my eyes. "Consider yourself invited for a cup of tea, by the way."

"Invitation accepted, John," Mycroft answers, and that's the last thing I hear before sliding into the world of dreams…

* * *

><p>True to his word, Mycroft proceeds to gently nudge me awake, calling out my name quietly. The car's stopped, so it's the end of our journey, I guess. I open my eyes and meet Mycroft's cold blue gaze, which softens a little while he studies my face intently.<p>

"You're still tired, John," he says softly, leaning over me to open the door of the car. "I think it would be wise for you to retire to your bedroom immediately."

"What about the cup of tea then?" I ask; my brain working too slowly to catch the full meaning of Mycroft's words.

"Your wellbeing is more important now that the social pleasantries, John. So maybe some other time," the older Holmes declines my offer politely, and motions for me to get out of the car. "Good night, John. Have a nice sleep. And don't be too hard on yourself, because I don't think that Sherlock will appreciate your less than perfect condition when he gets back."

My brain latches onto Mycroft's words immediately, and I open my mouth to ask a question, but Mycroft shakes his head.

"No questions, John, remember? Now get going."

Nodding silently, I climb out of the car and slowly make my way to the front door of our flat, turning around on the doorstep.

"Good night, Mycroft," I call out, fishing my keys out of my coat's pocket.

"Good night, John," Mycroft answers, closing the door, and the seconds after that the black car pulls away into the traffic line, disappearing out of my sight.

Shaking my head, I open the front door, walk up the stairs into the living room and stop in my tracks, seeing the painfully familiar figure stretched out comfortably on the sofa.

Sherlock raises his head and gives me the thorough once-over. He's obviously not pleased with the results of his observation, because he frowns slightly, pushing himself into the sitting position.

"Off to bed, John," he declares without preamble. "We will talk in the morning."

"And a good evening to you too, Sherlock," I reply, not moving from my spot in the doorway. "Since when you have started to decide what I should do and when I should do it, by the way?"

"That was merely a suggestion," my flatmate says calmly, not at all put out by my obvious resentment. "You really look tired, John; you should rest," his face softens. "I promised to explain everything to you upon returning, and I'm going to keep my word. But not while you're in such a condition. There are a lot of things that we ought to discuss, so it's necessary for you to be completely rested."

To tell the truth, I have neither strength nor desire to argue with my friend, so I turn away and start to ascend the stairs to my bedroom. "Good night, Sherlock," I call back over my shoulder. "I hope to see you in the morning."

"You will, John. You will," Sherlock answers, and then the enchanting melody of his violin starts to swirl over me, making me drowsy and pliant. I barely make it to the bed, but this time, however, I'm able to change into my pyjamas before I slide under the blanket and pass out…


	5. Chapter 4: Calling it Off

Today is my day off, so I allow myself to sleep in till 10 A.M. There's no intrusion upon me in the middle of the night; my sleep is undisturbed, and wake up gradually, stretching my body and opening my eyes slowly. There's no need to get up right away, and I stay in bed the next twenty minutes, using that time to prepare myself for the conversation with Sherlock.

Actually, I think I'm beginning to regret that I've started all this. Of course I didn't expect it to be easy; but, on the other hand, I didn't expect it to be so complicated either. And although outwardly Sherlock remaines his usual unperturbed self, I can clearly see the battle, which is raging inside him. I saw it in his eyes yesterday – a desperate search for means to satisfy my request, mixed with the desire to leave everything as it was before – and it actually cuts me to the core. For me, it is physically painful to see him like this, and if that is the cost, I am pretty much ready to abandon my plans. After all, I can cope with Sherlock's odds and quirks just fine; and as for others… Well, let's just say that everything in this life comes with a price, and Sherlock's inborn talents are not an exception. In other words – if they need him, they ought to put up with him, and that's exactly how it should be working.

A nature's call finally distracts me from my musings, and I'm forced to leave my bed. Actually, now I feel ready to face Sherlock; so, after all necessary morning procedures I pull on my striped jumper and well-worn blue jeans, and make my way downstairs.

The flat is too quiet, and for the moment I start to suspect that Sherlock has run off again. But that suspicion lasts only until the moment when I arrive in the living room and find Sherlock still lounging on the sofa. He is fast asleep in half-sitting position, one hand resting on my computer, which is open on his lap – it looks like he's been reading again. And that's probably a good thing, I suppose, because it may indicate that he's still considering my request. Or he just hasn't bothered to fetch his own computer again… Either way it doesn't really matter now, because I'm definitely calling the whole thing off.

Having finally decided on my course of action and therefore being quite at peace with myself, I move into the kitchen and start preparing our breakfast. Sherlock is still sleeping peacefully, which means that maybe we'll be able to spend a quiet day indoors – assuming, of course that there aren't going to be any urgent calls from Lestrade or, God forbid, from Mycroft Holmes himself. And maybe I'm even going to hear the story about Sherlock's three-day absence.

_Right, John. Like that ever happened since you've met Sherlock._

The return of my apparently sarcastic inner voice invokes the sudden urge to argue with it, which a priori is a completely pointless thing, so I decide not to pay attention.

_Oh, here we go. Go on, ignore me. That doesn't change the fact that I'm right, though._

"Do shut up, will you?" I grumble aloud, instantly realising how bizarre it may sound. Luckily for me, the only person that could hear that is still asleep, so I wisely push the annoying intruder back into the depth of my mind and continue my task.

As I had expected, Sherlock wakes the moment the aromas from the kitchen waft to the living room. I'm keeping my back turned, but I can clearly hear the slight creaking of the sofa and then the shuffling of bare feet, which are obviously heading in my direction.

"Smells good," Sherlock comments, sounding very close, and I glance back over my shoulder. My flatmate has stopped near the table, and currently is perched on the corner, watching me with amusement.

"There's a chair right beside you, if you haven't noticed," I remark casually, flipping the two slices of bacon over and keeping an eye on the frying eggs. "I thought we'd discussed your table manners already, Sherlock."

My friend snorts and remains where he is. "Still trying to boss me around, John?"

"Not at all," I reply casually, transferring the contents of two frying pans onto the plates, and bringing them over to the table. "If you insist in staying like that for the entire breakfast, knock yourself out".

I thrust one of the plates into his hands and move to the opposite side of the table, laying out the food and marvelling at the question of what the hell I'm doing. Because right at this moment I'm honestly at loss as to why I actually have said all that.

Sherlock, however, seems to take it all in stride and, turning slightly, drops down onto his seat in one fluid motion. Then he places his plate on the table and, reaching out, snatches the knife and the fork right out of my hands, all the while looking at me with the same amused expression.

Holding his gaze, I snatch the cutlery right back. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. I shrug my shoulders and start eating. Sherlock continues to watch me for a few moments, then turns to the right and reaches into the one of the drawers, pulling out a knife and a fork.

We spend the next ten or so minutes in absolute silence, while we take time to savour our meal. When we are finished, I start to rise up, intending to put the dishes away, but Sherlock's hand unexpectedly snakes across the table, closing around my wrist and therefore stopping me in mid-movement. I lock my eyes with him again.

"What?" I ask calmly, keeping my expression neutral.

"Do you still wish to hear it?" he asks, tilting his head to the side.

"Hear what?" I carefully tug my hand free and gather the tableware, carrying it over to the sink.

"The story," Sherlock elaborates cryptically, but I know exactly what he's referring to.

"Of course. Just give me a few minutes to finish this, and then I'll be all yours," I reply cheerfully, not missing the sharp intake of breath on Sherlock's part. "You want to do that in the living room, right?"

"Do what?" he enquires carefully, trying to sound nonchalant but not quite making it. I glance over my shoulder briefly, catching him staring at me with curiosity.

This is too tempting; I just can't help but to deliver the final blow. "To molest me with your story, of course," I deadpan, watching closely for his reaction.

It comes almost immediately: Sherlock's expression rapidly closes down, transforming his face into an emotionless mask, and he pulls himself up to his full height, raising his chin defiantly for emphasis. "Is that supposed to be a joke, John?" he says coldly, condescension coming from him almost in waves.

"Of course it is, Sherlock," I flash him one of my best disarming smiles. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, my dear."

Sherlock shoots me one of his withering glances and stalks off into the living room with the air of wounded dignity. There he throws himself into his favourite chair and attempts to drill a hole into me with his piercing blue-grey gaze.

Okay, a small confession here: when we first met, those stares served their purpose perfectly, stunning me into the immediate compliance. But over the course of time they seemed to gradually lose their menace, and I grew accustomed to ignore them. There were times when it had cost me dearly, because Sherlock attempted to use them as a warning in potentially dangerous situations, and with me stubbornly ignoring those attempts… Let's just say that the results weren't pretty.

But the current situation holds no threat for me at all, so I disregard the staring thing completely and proceed to go with my task to its full completion. Right after that I move into the living room and take my seat across Sherlock, meeting his unwavering gaze steadily.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the right for a few moments, then straightens in his chair and steeples his hands in front of his mouth, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. "Three days," he says thoughtfully.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and give a slight nod in acknowledgement of his words. Although I'm not quite sure that he's noticed, because his distant expression clearly indicates that his mind already had taken him somewhere else.

"I was visiting an old… acquaintance," my friend seems to be musing aloud. "Outside of London, deep in the countryside… Quite boring, actually."

"Good place for thinking," I prompt quietly, and his eyes immediately shift into focus, scrutinizing me.

"Undoubtedly," he agrees, and in one move mirrors my position, leaning towards me. "But I missed the patches."

"That should teach you how to pack things for a field trip," I remark casually, causing a spark of amusement to appear in my friend's silver eyes. "So… any thoughts about…"

"Quite a few. But I don't think that you'll like it," he says calmly and pauses, obviously waiting for my reaction.

Of course, he doesn't have to wait long. "Try me."

He breaks our rapport, casually leaning back again and steepling his fingers. Ah, lecture mode in full force. Better not to interrupt him when he's like this.

"As I was saying earlier, I took the liberty to re-read those articles. And, despite the fact that we'd established the asexual nature of our supposed relationship, I'm pretty much convinced that we can't succeed. Simply because in addition to honesty, trust and caring that you'd mentioned in our previous conversation, there's a small issue of… inequality," Sherlock pauses slightly and shakes his head.

"Pretty awkward, huh?" I ask softly. "Look, if you don't want to talk about that…"

A raised hand stops me in mid-sentence. "Let me finish, John."

"Of course, Sherlock. Fire away."

For a few moments he visibly struggles with words, and I can only guess what it costs him to simply continue this conversation.

"Never thought that it would be so hard for me to say it," he murmurs under his breath. "Okay, let's try again. According to the articles, this type of relationship is based on a constant submission of the one person to the other. And, having observed your behaviour lately, I had come to the obvious conclusion that you perceive yourself as a dominant side of our pairing. Is that correct?"

I simply nod in confirmation.

"Good. Then let us consider the fact that since the moment we met, you were pretty much content with your position as my assistant, and therefore we had formed a perfectly functioning partnership."

"Yes, Sherlock, but that's not exactly the point. I'm not talking about the effectiveness; I'm talking about the way you treat other people."

"Oh, please, don't make it sound like you're concerned about The Greater Good," Sherlock actually rolls his eyes and makes air quotes for emphasis. "We both know perfectly that this is about your desire to fit me into a common standard, and I thought I have expressed myself clearly on that matter. I'm not going to change, John, not willingly, anyway. And that, by the way, is a direct contradiction to the Grand Rule. You can't force me to submit, I must do that voluntarily. Surely you do understand that I have no reasons to subject myself to such an experiment."

Well, it was clear from the beginning, actually. So let's end it. "Yes, I do. And that's exactly why I was going to inform you that I'm calling the whole thing off, Sherlock."

Pointless conversation, more like dancing around each other with no intention of getting any tangible results. A game in the sake of a game itself. Should've seen this coming.

My flatmate stares at me for a few moments, then, to my astonishment, smiles slightly. "Very well, John. Until the next time, then."

Oh no, Sherlock, I'm not falling for that. No bloody way. "There won't be a next time, Sherlock. You made yourself clear, and I accept that. End of story."

"As you wish, John," and here is that knowing smile again.

"Sherlock..," I begin, but right at that moment my friend's mobile decides to come back to life. Well, the conversation is obviously finished… for now.

Sherlock picks up his phone and hits the button. "Sherlock Holmes. Yes, of course. Where? Good. I'll be there shortly. What?" he casts a brief glance in my direction, "Probably. Will it matter? Okay, I'll see what I can do."

He hangs up and focuses his gaze on me. "Lestrade. Murder, Nine Elms. Coming?"

So that's what it was all about. "Do you want me to?"

"Depends on your inclination, John," Sherlock raises his eyebrows and waits patiently for my answer.

Clever, Sherlock, very clever. Well, now I simply can't disappoint you, can I? "Then I'll sit this one out, Sherlock. If you don't mind, of course."

Sherlock springs out of his chair in one smooth move and crosses the living room in a few strides, tugging his coat from the hook at the back of the door. "Actually, I DO mind, John," he dons the coat. "But I'm not going to force you into anything. Have a nice day, then, and don't wait up."

With that, he's out of the room in a flash, and I'm left with only one option.

Leaping up from my chair, and grabbing my coat on the way out, I rush downstairs and burst out of the front door right in time to see my friend getting into a cab.

"Sherlock, wait!" I call out, and he spins around to face me, hand on the door of the car. "I'm coming with you."

A small smile tugs at the corner of my friend's lips, and then he turns and dives inside the cab, leaving the door open for me. I cover the short distance in two leaps, dive in right after Sherlock and slam the door shut.

"Nine Elms and Kirtling, hurry up!" Sherlock commands, and we speed off towards the awaiting mystery…

**A/N: Not quite sure about this chapter, actually, because Sherlock in my head was constantly putting up a fight and fending my ideas off. Thankfully, John seemed to agree with my opinion, so... That's the actual result. Feel free to tell me what do you think about it :)**


	6. Chapter 5: Silence is Golden

"You can wipe that smirk off your face, Sherlock," I grumble. "You won. Congratulations. Now shut it."

My flatmate glances at me, smug expression transforming into one of amusement. "I didn't realise that we had a contest, John. You made a suggestion, and I chose to consider it, presenting my conclusions to you afterwards. It was your choice to – as you had phrased it – 'call it off'. And my expression, if that's what you are referring to, has nothing to do with the discussed subject, I assure you."

"Then what are you so happy about?"

"Lestrade texted the details about the case. Sounds interesting. Not ordinary, at least."

"Oh," I say, my mind latching onto Sherlock's words excitedly. "What did he say about it?"

"Not enough data yet. But Lestrade is quite sure it's one of the funny cases I love so much," Sherlock replies with a derisive snort. "His message says 'unidentified van' and 'gold paint'. Very eloquent."

"Well, maybe he doesn't want to jump to the wrong conclusions. He's good at what he does, you know."

That gets me another amused look from my friend. "I do not doubt him, John, there's no need for you to become all defensive about it."

"I'm not defensive, it's just…"

"John," Sherlock says with exasperation. "Could you please stop doing that? It's annoying, and I need to concentrate."

"Okay, I'll shut up."

"Thank you. We're almost there. And I expect to hear your opinion on the case, so I suggest postponing our discussion about personal matters until we get home. Agreed?"

"Absolutely."

"Good. I already can see Lestrade across the street; let's not keep him waiting any longer."

Our cab slows down and stops not far from the bunch of police cars, and Sherlock gets out his wallet. He pays the cabby, pushes me out of the car and towards Lestrade, falling into step behind me. It feels strange, because usually it's me trailing after him, not the other way around; but I'm not going to make a fuss about it right now.

Not when Sherlock is practically glowing with excitement.

"The game is on, John," he whispers in utter delight, and I look at him over my shoulder, picking up the pace.

'Not enough data', my ass. Okay, let's see what it's all about.

* * *

><p><strong>Lestrade POV<strong>

Sometimes there are days, when I feel that getting out of bed was my biggest mistake. Especially because of cases like this one.

First of all, there's a van without registration numbers, which managed to stay unnoticed for more than twenty-four hours, despite the fact that it was parked near the Battersea Service Station

Second – the two unfortunate blokes, who attempted to hijack that vehicle and were caught in the process.

Third – the discovery of a strange cargo inside the van resulting in me calling Sherlock to the crime scene.

And finally, on top of all that – Sherlock asking if John's presence would matter this time.

The last one definitely outweighs the previous ones. For me, Sherlock and John became inseparable long ago, and hearing Sherlock ask such a question… It simply screams WRONG for me.

The feeling of wrongness hits the high point on my scale when I spot them getting out of a cab. Because never in my life would I have imagined the day when I see Sherlock FOLLOWING John to the crime scene. Usually it's the good doctor, who is in tow, almost breaking into a run to keep up with Sherlock's brisk pace.

Not now, though. Our consulting detective firmly stays one step behind, and it's obvious that John is not at all happy about it. A couple of times he stops and tries to get Sherlock to sidestep him and continue walking, but the tall genius also halts and waits for John to start moving again. I can see that it irritates John, and by the time he finally gets near me, his jaw is set tight and his eyes are blazing.

Unlike his companion, Sherlock is calm and collected; his steely gaze with a hint of amusement is set on John, which seems to irk the doctor further. No wonder that a few moments later John finally snaps, squaring his shoulders and rounding on Sherlock.

"Will you stop it?" he hisses, glaring at his flatmate.

"Stop what, John? I'm not doing anything apart from walking after you," Sherlock answers.

"Exactly! Stop doing that!"

A corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up. "Is there a problem, John?"

"Yes, there is! And you know full well..."

"Gentlemen," I interrupt. "Could you please choose another opportunity to sort your problems out? We are kind of having an emergency here," I say pointedly, causing them to stop their bickering and to look at me. John's face adapts a guilty expression and Sherlock merely shrugs his shoulders.

"My apologies, Detective Inspector, that was very unprofessional of me," John says tensely. "What kind of emergency are we talking about?"

"To tell the truth, we are not sure yet," I reply, gesturing towards the van. "I think you should see it for yourselves."

Sherlock nods, sidesteps John and strides to the vehicle, John following him with the triumphant grin. I shake my head and start to walk after them. With these two around, my life is never easy; but at least it proves to be quite entertaining sometimes.

Like now, for example. There's certainly some sort of disagreement between them at the moment, and it affects John more than Sherlock. Our consulting detective is his usual unperturbed self, whereas the good doctor is putting a considerable effort into keeping his cool. I'm positively sure that were it not for social norms, John would've given his partner a thorough dressing-down right here and now; but I also know that the good doctor is TOO good to do such thing on public. So instead John plasters his 'everything's fine' expression on, swallowing his irritation and concentrating at problem at hand – as he always tends to do in situations like this.

Oh boy, is Sherlock going to get it when they return to Baker Street...

* * *

><p>We reach the van simultaneously and take a peek inside, its content rendering us speechless for the moment.<p>

"Elegant," Sherlock utters finally. "Looks like..."

"Except it's not," I manage to force out, shaken to the core. "What is she, twenty?"

"Most likely," Sherlock agrees. "The gold paint was obviously sprayed on after her death ."

"Poisoned?" I enquire.

"I doubt it. Sedated. Overdosed. What do you think about the pose, John? Strange, isn't it?"

"Yes," I mutter, not being able to tear my eyes from the view. "As if she's the part of some composition. A statue."

"Quite right. Italian."

"How can you tell?"

"Not her, John. The sculpture. I've seen it recently."

"When?" I frown. To my knowledge, he hadn't been to a museum in ages.

"During the last case."

Lestrade pipes in. "Our last case? As far as I remember, it had nothing to do with sculptures, Italian or otherwise."

"The other case. It wasn't in London, Lestrade. John, have you noticed the part of the scarf?"

I barely hear him, my thoughts going miles a minute.

Outside of London? The other case? Had seen it recently?

Everything clicks into place.

"He knew all along, didn't he?" I ask slowly, and Sherlock turns to look at me, raising his eyebrow.

"Who knew what, John? What are you talking about?"

"Mycroft. When he was giving me a lift, he already knew. You were working for him then, weren't you?"

"John, I have no idea what are you talking about, but..."

Anger wells up inside me. "I think you bloody well do, Sherlock," I answer coldly, turning around and stalking away. "Don't you dare to follow me!"

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't.

* * *

><p>Stupid, stupid, stupid!<p>

I flag down a cab, get in and all but slam the door behind me.

"Hey!" the cabby eyes me with suspicion. "None of that stuff in my car, mate, or you going out."

"Sorry, I'm just... Upset a little, I guess," I say, feeling my face grow warm.

"Gave you the cold shoulder, didn't she?" the driver smiles knowingly.

"No, the problem's work-related," I answer, already lost in thoughts.

"Whatever you say. Where to?"

It takes a minute for me to understand what he is asking me about.

"Oh. Nowhere in particular. I just need to think for awhile."

"Sorry, mate, can't have that. Give me the address, or you'll be thinking outside."

I struggle to remember a place that's as far away from here as possible. "Um... 79 Greencroft Gardens, please."

The cabby glances at me curiously. "You don't strike me as a person who would need to stay at a B&B."

Oh, great, another well-wisher.

"Well, that's none of your business," I grumble. "Just drive."

He looks hurt for a moment, then turns away, and I find myself feeling bad for upsetting him.

"Alright, alright! 221B Baker Street. Take the longest route possible, will you?"

He smiles, looking at me through the rear-view mirror. "You don't remember me, do you, Doctor Watson?"

"No," I answer carefully. "Should I?"

"Well, it wasn't a cab I was driving that time; it was my own car… And if wasn't for you, I would've lost my family in that car crash a year ago."

"Oh," I mutter, trying to remember the mentioned event and failing miserably. "I'm sorry, but I can't quite…"

"That's okay; it's simply one of the episodes in your line of duty. I don't mind you not remembering it. I just wanted to say 'thank you' once again. And, by the way, here's my card. If you ever need me, I would be glad to help."

"Thank you," I take his card and pocket it. Because, let's be honest, what can you possibly say to that, apart from expressing some gratitude of your own?

My point exactly.

"So, 221B Baker Street, the longest route?" the cabby – Stephen, as indicated on his card – enquires.

"If you don't mind."

"Not at all. And just so we clear – you have a permanent discount, and that's not debatable."

"Stephen…"

"John," there's a warning note in his voice, and I wisely decide to shut up. "Good. Now sit back and enjoy the ride…"

All the way to Baker Street my thoughts are whirling around the recent crime scene. Now that I'd calmed down from the outburst towards Sherlock, I can think more clearly. And I can't shake off the feeling that this horrible sight of a dead girl, spray-painted with gold, is not the last we're going to see. Sherlock did say 'a sculpture' after all. Not 'a statue', so that probably means there are another parts in this 'composition' – at least two more, judging by the position of this girl's arms. Which, in turn, means that if we don't do anything soon, another two (at least) dead girl's bodies might be discovered somewhere.

Okay, what do we have so far?

A dead girl, around twenty, no identifications, body totally covered with gold paint, made to look like a sculpture. Clearly unnatural death, but, according to Sherlock, she was sedated rather than poisoned. Death had occurred more than twenty four hours ago, the body manipulated into a required position before rigor mortis took place – must've been one hell of a task to keep her that way, so possibly some sort of ropes and contraptions configuration.

The van is lacking its registration plates, scrubbed clean, so doubtfully Lestrade's team will find something incriminating inside or outside. So, check the registration number on the engine, run it through the database. Check the records on security cameras nearby; see if something (or someone) interesting shows up.

That's pretty much all that I can come with by now; Sherlock surely has much more than that, but since I left, I can't know for sure.

Speaking of Sherlock – what the hell was I thinking, storming out like that? It was a personal matter, and my flatmate made his opinion clear on that account. And more importantly, I had agreed with him.

So what's wrong with this picture?

Ah, well, there's only way to find out.

"Stephen," I call out with determination, and he glances at me through the rear-view mirror. "Change of plan. Take me home, please."

"Aye, captain, you wish is my command," he jokes, turning the car around and setting the course to 221B Baker Street…

* * *

><p>The lights are out in the living room, and that means Sherlock hasn't returned yet. Probably he's still at Scotland Yard, harassing Lestrade about the case, or at Bart's, trying to charm Molly into showing him the girl's body. Anyway, that's a good thing; it gives me some time to prepare for our conversation.<p>

I get my wallet out, and Stephen manages to look thoroughly offended. "Don't even think about it, John," he warns, looking at me pointedly. "Consider this trip as the sign of my gratitude."

I hesitate, still unsure as what I should do about it, and he huffs in exasperation, pushing my hand away. I nod and pocket my wallet, getting out of car. He lowers the side window, and I lean down to look at him.

"Thank you, Stephen," I say warmly, reaching out to shake his hand.

"You're welcome, John," he grips my hand and gives it a firm squeeze. "Don't hesitate to call."

"Okay, I will," I promise, giving him a small wave and watching him turn the wheel. The car smoothly pulls into the traffic and half a minute later disappears from view.

I fish my keys from my pocket, open the door and step inside, unbuttoning my jacket on the way.

Everything happens in a flash the moment I take a first step forward. Two hands latch onto my collar, starting to pull the jacket down, and I react instinctively, kicking back with my left foot. My attacker yelps in pain and releases my collar when the heel of my boot crashes into his knee, and right after that I throw myself backwards, slamming my body into his and head-butting him along the way. He grunts painfully and we topple to the floor, him grabbing onto me and me kicking and shoving at him to pry his hands off.

After a brief struggle I break from his grasp and immediately roll away, propping myself up on my elbows in order to get a good look at my attacker.

Only to see Sherlock huddled on the floor, clutching his knee and giving me the death glare.

"Glad to see you too, John," he says sarcastically, mindless of the blood trickling from his nose and staining a pristine white shirt. "Excellent reflexes."

He closes his eyes and his whole body just sort of slumps down.

Oh crap.

**Well, in addition to Sherlock and John trying to settle things out between them I now have a case thrown in for good measure... *sigh* What can I say - life is never boring at 221B Baker Street...**


	7. Chapter 6: Legwork

A terrified gasp sounds to my left, and I turn my head to discover that our front door is still open, and a small group of onlookers had already gathered outside. Getting on my hands and knees, I sort of slither to the door and slam it closed, then turn around and make my way back to Sherlock's motionless body. He is out cold, his hands are still curled around his knee and his face is scrunched up in an expression of pain; but on the bright side, his nose has stopped bleeding at last.

Trying to move Sherlock right now is out of the question, so I get up and go upstairs for a first-aid kit and a wet cloth. Taking a detour into the living room, I snatch a pillow and bring it with me downstairs.

I'm half-way down the stairs when Sherlock starts to stir, a quiet moan escaping his lips, so I hastily finish my descent, dropping down onto my knees and reaching out to touch his face. His skin is already beginning to turn black and blue, revealing an extensive bruising, and I pull my hand back, afraid to cause him more pain. He moans again, blinks his eyes open and tries to lift his head. I use that opportunity to assist him, supporting his head with my hand and sliding a pillow under it.

"John," he says weakly. "I'm… sorry…"

"You certainly should be," I agree, wiping the blood from his face with the wet cloth. "Grabbing me like that wasn't the brightest idea, Sherlock."

"Certainly," my friend breathes out in pained voice. "You're… good."

"Thanks for the compliment, but now is not the time for pleasantries. Can you tell me where it hurts the most?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, obviously starting a mental check-list, and soon opens them again. "My knee."

"Of course," I mutter, remembering the force of the blow I bestowed on my flatmate's kneecap. "There's a real chance that it's fractured, Sherlock, I think you should be aware of that."

My friend cringes. "I'm painfully aware of that, John. Can you fix it here?"

I shake my head and reach into my pocket, pulling my phone out. "I'd rather not. We should get you to the hospital. I'm going to call an ambulance right now. Try not to move your leg; we don't need to worsen your condition."

"Okay," Sherlock closes his eyes. "And you should call Lestrade as well, by the way."

I glance at him in confusion, my finger pausing in mid-air. "And why would I do that?"

He sighs, opens his eyes and points at his face, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Oh," I wince, realisation dawning.

"Oh, indeed," Sherlock confirms, closing his eyes again and dropping his hand onto the pillow. "We certainly don't need you getting arrested, do we?"

"Of course not, but… What the hell am I supposed to tell him? 'Sorry, Detective Inspector, could you please come at once, I have incidentally decked Sherlock'?"

My flatmate huffs in annoyance, opens his eyes, snatches the phone out of my fingers and fires a text to Lestrade; then he hands the mobile back to me and burrows his face into the pillow. I open my mouth to ask what exactly he sent, but he beats me to it.

"Just look for yourself, it's hardly a secret, John," he grumbles, turning his head and sliding a hand under the pillow.

I browse through 'Sent' messages, and find the last one: '_Emergency in the flat, details upon arrival. Come quickly. SH'._ Well, now all I need is to call an ambulance and pray that Lestrade gets here before the paramedics…

* * *

><p>And quite surprisingly, he does.<p>

Less than ten minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and I push myself up, reaching for the door to pull it open. Lestrade barges in, looking utterly displeased, and freezes the second his gaze falls on the lanky body curled up on the floor. He stares at Sherlock for a couple of seconds, and then turns to me.

"Alright," he says with unexpected calm. "Explain that to me, Doctor."

Sherlock snorts. "He's hardly the one who should do it, just because he's done it in the first place."

To my astonishment, Lestrade manages to understand this paradoxical phrase. "You mean he's the one who assaulted you?"

"Not exactly. It was self-defence."

The Detective Inspector frowns. "Self-defence? What, he tried to defend himself from YOU? Why?"

"I startled him," Sherlock admits easily. "I didn't give him a warning, was behind his back and grabbed the collar of his coat."

Lestrade's eyes widen. "You really did that? And he decked you?"

"Exactly," my friend snaps out. "It was an accident. And I would prefer for that information to stay behind the closed door, if you catch my drift. Are we clear on this subject, Lestrade?"

"Quite clear," the DI agrees. "But I need the cover story, Sherlock."

"I think you're clever enough to come up with one, Detective Inspector," my friend replies. "Just leave John out of it."

Speaking of the door... The mishap with our own front door comes to my mind, and I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Um… We may have a slight problem with that, Sherlock."

His gaze drifts onto my face, and he scrutinizes it, his eyes narrow and guarded. "What now?"

"Well, you chose to time your 'surprise' in exactly the same moment I had crossed the threshold..," I begin, only to be interrupted by my scowling flatmate.

"I DID let you take a few steps forward, John, don't exaggerate," Sherlock points out, not at all happy with me bringing the subject up.

I simply ignore him and continue speaking.

"… and therefore the front door stayed open the whole time. I can't say for sure, but I think a few people may have seen everything."

"Just great," my flatmate comments acidly, rolling his eyes, and Lestrade reaches into his pocket for mobile.

"Hold on a minute, I'll check if anything came up already," he explains, seeing a question in my eyes, and dials a number. "Hello, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Have you got any news? All quiet? Okay, thanks. Call me if you hear anything," he hangs up and breathes a sigh of relief. "No news so far. Let's hope it stays that way."

Right at that moment there's another knock at the door, and Lestrade pulls it open, stepping aside and letting the medics in.

"This man had been assaulted while working for the Metropolitan Police," the DI explains briefly. "He needs proper medical attention."

"Understood, sir," the medic nods and turns to his colleagues. "Okay, let's get him on the gurney. What's your name, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes," my friend gasps in pain as he lifted up and moved onto the stretcher. "Is it possible for my assistant to accompany me in the ambulance? This is Doctor John Watson," Sherlock nods his head in my direction.

The leader of the medical team turns towards me, intrigued. "Doctor? May I ask about your specialty, sir?"

"Field surgeon."

"Good. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Holmes' condition?"

"A severe blow to a left knee, extensive bruising, possible concussion, possible broken nose – he had a nosebleed."

"Okay, thank you for information. Follow me, please."

The medical team lifts the gurney and carries Sherlock into the ambulance. I get inside after them and turn to look at Lestrade.

"Go, I'll follow you in my car," the DI announces, closing the door to our flat. I throw him the keys; he locks it, pockets them and gets into his car.

Meanwhile, the back doors of an ambulance are pulled closed by another member of the medical team.

"We are ready to go, Doctor Watson," the medic calls out, and I turn to look at Sherlock. He's unconscious, an IV sticking into his arm, and his left leg is immobilised.

"Let's go, then," I nod, and the van speeds off in the direction of the hospital…

* * *

><p>After our arrival at A&amp;E Sherlock is whisked away into a private room without any delay, which may indicate that Mycroft is already aware of everything that transpired in our flat. It's kind of strange that he hadn't made an appearance, considering the state Sherlock is in, but I guess it's just going to be a belated pleasure.<p>

My friend is awake when I enter the room, and judging by the way he is pointedly refusing to look at me while I move to his bed and take a seat in a plastic chair, this is definitely 'a bit no good'.

"It's entirely your fault," Sherlock declares sourly, eyeing the immobiliser on his knee with obvious disgust.

"WHAT?" I splutter in indignation. "How the hell it's MY fault? YOU grabbed me in the first place, it was self-defence!"

Sherlock narrows his eyes, shooting me a scorching glare. "It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't run away from the crime scene on a whim."

Anger sparks inside me, threatening to turn into a roaring fire within seconds. "It wasn't a whim, Sherlock! You bloody lied to me!"

"No, I didn't, John. I just didn't tell you the whole truth about my absence," my friend objects, his face annoyingly impassive.

"That's the same thing!" I bristle.

"No, it's not," Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really, John, if you're going to be so irksome, then it's better for you to leave right now."

A warning note is clear in his voice, and I feel like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped over me. Taking a deep breath, I count to five.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. We've just got hold on an interesting case, and I already managed to botch up everything."

A sudden smile lights up my friend's face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Not necessarily so, John. There's still chance for you to make amends for it."

Knowing Sherlock, I can clearly sense the trap I'm about to walk into, but I make that step nonetheless. "How?"

My friend winks at me. "Well, considering that my knee is going to be immobilised for a while, the 'legwork', as my brother tends to call it, is completely yours."

"Fair enough," I agree without complaint. "I'm really sorry about your knee, Sherlock. But on a bright side, your nose is definitely not broken."

Sherlock emits an amused chuckle. "Right now I would've preferred it to be the other way around, John."

The statement is rhetorical, but I still choose to acknowledge it with a nod.

We both fall silent for awhile, with Sherlock obviously looking up something online via his phone and me contemplating the amount of work I just have gotten myself into. Granted, I always did my fair share of case-solving activities during the investigation, but this time I'm evidently going to bear the most of them. And that's fine, really, as long as Sherlock would agree to pay a proper attention to his physical recovery.

This normally never seems to happen, if my flatmate retains even remote capability of moving around.

Broken ribs? "Just bandage them tighter, John, or we're going to be late and Anderson will irreparably mess everything up!"

Severe malnourishment and dehydration? "Put the plate away, John, and stop distracting me, for God's sake, I need to work!"

A concussion? "It's just a bump on the head, John, everything's…" *a body hitting the floor with a thump*

An arm sliced through to the bone? "Don't make a fuss, John, it's just a scratch… Oh, and can you fetch me that beaker, please? I'm short on blood samples."

Torn stitches? "But you can stitch it back together right now, John, can't you?"

I can easily write a list of such occasions and I'm pretty sure that this list is bound to be an often updated feature, should I consider really writing it - what with Sherlock being Sherlock and me tending to put everything that happens to me into words… And although I'm determined to keep that list to a minimum, there's a part of me that secretly prides itself on the subject of being needed by Sherlock on a day-to-day basis.

Twisted, isn't it?

Maybe. But take a minute to consider it, John. Where do you think your recent idea has come from?

Exactly.

So maybe Sherlock hadn't been so wrong after all, when he said…

"Any chance of you stopping daydreaming and paying attention to my words, John?"

Sherlock's amused voice cuts into my thoughts, jerking me back to reality, and I blink at my friend in confusion. His lips quirk up into a slight smile.

"Must've been some thoughts," he comments, eyes scanning my face intently.

I know this look, being subjected to it so many times that I have actually lost count – or haven't bothered to count in a first place.

Wondering, enquiring, asking, demanding to know – you can choose either of them.

And it's the last thing I need right now, especially considering WHAT I was thinking about.

"Nothing important," I shrug my shoulders and try to adopt a careless expression. "You were saying?"

Sherlock chuckles. "Nice attempt, John. I was telling you about the message I sent to Lestrade a moment ago."

"And what about it?"

"I had asked Lestrade to give you all information on the 'sculpture' case. Am I right in assuming that they are going to keep me here until tomorrow?"

"I think that's a given, Sherlock. Sorry. X-rays, maybe surgery... Could be a several days."

My friend unexpectedly claps his hands together, making me jump. "Good. Then I need you to fetch those files for me. The sooner the better."

It's pretty much what I've been expecting, so I find myself grinning and shaking my head at my irritating flatmate. "Legwork, huh?"

"Exactly. Well?" Sherlock raises both his eyebrows in enquiry.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," I push myself up from the plastic chair and head for the door. "Any additional requests?"

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, not saying anything, but obviously waiting for my reaction, and my mind makes the connection.

"Oh," I mutter under my breath. And then, much louder. "Nicotine patches?"

A small confirming smile and his gaze returns to the small screen once again. I just have been dismissed, so I open the door and leave the room, pulling my phone out and dialling a familiar number.

He picks up on a third ring. "Hello again, Doctor Watson. Sherlock sent me the text, so feel free to drop in whenever you like."

"Thank you, Inspector, I'm on my way right now, so…"

"Okay, then, see you soon," he disconnects, and I walk out of hospital, pocketing the phone and crossing the pavement to flag down the taxi…

* * *

><p>I arrive at Scotland Yard fairly quickly and make my way through the corridors leading to Lestrade's department. It feels strange being here without Sherlock by my side, and it looks like I'm not the only one thinking about it, because I catch a few curious glances from the members of the police force. I nod briefly to those I'm familiar with, and as for the rest – their eyes shift away from me in the next second, so I choose not to acknowledge them at all.<p>

A short while later Lestrade's office finally appears in my sight, and I stroll towards it with confidence, only to be intercepted by Sergeant Donovan. Seeing me, she moves away from her deck, takes a step forward and stops, thus blocking my way completely. Faced with an unexpected barrier, I slow my steps down and come into a stop, standing barely a foot from her. She opens her mouth and starts speaking, cutting straight to the core.

"So, the news is true, then?" she asks cryptically, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Donovan," I answer calmly, trying to keep my irritation out of my voice. I honestly respect and admire Lestrade, but the members of his team are really managing to get on my nerves sometimes. No wonder that Sherlock is so irked with Donovan – the bloody woman really deserves it. "What news are you talking about, if I may ask?"

"Freak. According to witnesses, he finally got what was coming to him. Somebody taught him a good hard lesson, I've heard. And it looks like that somebody…"

My jaw tightens, and I ball my hands into fists almost without realising it. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I think it's none of your bloody business. And if you ever allow yourself to speak about Sherlock in such a manner again, I…"

"Donovan!" Lestrade's voice cuts into our conversation, hard and harsh. "You have work to do, so get on with it."

She jerks in surprise and whirs around to face her superior. I glance away from Donovan and my gaze settles on Lestrade, who is standing in the doorway of his office and glaring and his subordinate. She averts her gaze and goes back to her table, and the DI's tense posture relaxes slightly.

"Would you please come into my office, Doctor Watson?" Lestrade says, his tone placating. "I have the files you should look at, and we're waiting for the witness' arrival."

"What witness?" I cross the last few steps to the DI's office, and he steps aside, ushering me inside and gesturing towards the chair. I take a seat and Lestrade returns to his chair behind his desk.

"We checked the records from the cameras nearest to our mysterious van. Oh, and by the way, the van itself was hijacked two days ago. It was driven to the Service Station by two men we haven't identified yet. After parking the vehicle they took a cab, and we were able to identify it by the registration number. So, the driver should be here quite soon… Ah, here he is."

Lestrade leaves his chair and goes to the door to meet the cab driver. Intrigued, I shift in my seat to take a look at the visitor…

…and freeze half-way, not able to believe my eyes.

The cabbie looks equally stumped, his eyes racking over my face in total disbelief.

Finally, I clear my throat and manage to find my voice.

"Stephen?"

**A huge thanks to Pilikia18 for being so kind and wonderful Beta.**


	8. Chapter 7: Matter of National Importance

A few moments later Lestrade pointedly clears his throat, causing me and Stephen to snap out of daze and look at him.

"So you two know each other, I take it?" Lestrade asks, reaching into his pocket. "By the way, John, I think these are yours."

Pulling my keys out, he tosses them to me and crosses his arms on his chest, waiting for me to answer his question.

Catching the keys and pocketing them, I throw a glance at Stephen, who already managed to get himself under control and watches me with an absolutely vacant expression on his face, and then resume my eye contact with Lestrade.

"Yes, Inspector, we…"

To my surprise, at this moment Stephen decides to interrupt me. "We met a year ago, Detective Inspector. Doctor Watson saved my family after a car crash. My wife and son – they were just two of his many patients, so no wonder if he won't remember them at all. But I remember him, and that's enough, don't you think?"

Lestrade frowns a little, obviously not impressed by Stephen's abrupt declaration of gratitude to me. I can totally agree with the Detective Inspector on this, but not because of Stephen's confession; it's actually the way he stresses 'enough' that bothers me.

Looks like Lestrade's new witness is not at all enthusiastic about me mentioning our recent cab ride from Battersea to Baker Street. Which makes me wonder why, by the way.

Meanwhile Lestrade, who obviously had enough of this weird scene, decides to take matters in his own hands.

"Well, Mr. Lowsley," he breaks his eye contact with me and fixes Stephen with his patented 'police gaze': eyes narrowed and eyebrows drawn together. "I need to ask you a few questions, so please follow me."

With this, he gestures towards the outside of his office, and Stephen immediately turns around, heading in the direction pointed by the DI.

"Can I stay for the interrogation?" I ask as Lestrade starts moving, and the police inspector gives a quick nod, beckoning for me to follow.

Stephen is waiting for us near the doors to the department, and Lestrade, not slowing his pace, pushes the swinging doors open and continues along the corridor. Stephen and I are left with no other choice but to hurry up and catch up with him, so we briefly exchange glances and proceed to do just that.

But I just can't let the subject slip, so while we are still out of Lestrade's earshot I gather my wits and decide to confront my newfound "friend".

"Why didn't you tell him?" I ask bluntly, causing Stephen to jerk in surprise and stumble a little.

"I couldn't," he answers in a low voice, glancing nervously at Lestrade's back. He looks quite pale, and I notice sweat breaking on his forehead. "I had a reason for being near the Battersea Service Station – a reason I can't tell you or the inspector about yet. But I can tell you one thing: the stuff I heard from those two blokes two days ago is going to make quite a stir, believe me."

"What do you mean?" I ask, intrigued. "And are you alright, by the way? You don't look good."

Stephen just shakes his head.

"Not now, John," he says, glancing nervously at Lestrade, who already reached the interrogation room and stands near the door, waiting. "I need everything that I'm going to say to be recorded. It's my only chance. The stakes are too high, John, and I need protection."

Stephen's voice is hushed, and when I risk a glance at him, I catch the expression of genuine fear flitting across his face. He desperately tries to keep his cool, but his quivering lips and haunted eyes clearly telling another story.

I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I'm perfectly capable of doing some deductions of my own. Especially in this situation, when at least two conclusions are obvious: my ride home in Stephen's cab could have been planned all along, and this case is probably going to gain some points on Sherlock's scale of interest quite soon.

I'm so caught up in my musings that Stephen's voice makes me jump a little. Turns out that he isn't talking to me, although he mentions my name, and I frown a little, trying to understand what exactly is he saying right now.

"I was wondering if I can ask for Doctor Watson's presence during the interrogation, Detective Inspector," Stephen asks hesitantly. "I've read his blog, and I've been on his colleague's site. The Science of Deduction. Mister Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken."

These three little phrases are like trigger warning for me, and I feel my defences immediately snapping up. "Yeah, so what?"

The tone of my voice is unnecessarily sharp, and Stephen takes a step back, trying to shrink away. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't want to upset you. I really need help, and I thought..."

"Mister Lowsley," Lestrade interrupts, opening the door of the interrogation room and gesturing for Stephen to go inside. "It would be better if we continue this conversation inside, don't you think?"

The cabbie nods silently, lowers his head and steps into the room, his whole figure drooping in defeat. He looks so miserable that I start to feel guilty despite of all my suspicions.

"Steve," I call quietly, and he whirls around to face me, a hopeful expression appearing on his face. "I'm overreacted. Sorry."

"It's okay, John, I understand," he says hurriedly. "I'm a cabbie, after all. And I read your blog. The Study in Pink... It's alright for you to be suspicious. But I mean no harm, and I need your help."

I open my mouth to answer, but right at this moment Lestrade, who is obviously fed up with all this dancing around, again takes matters in his own hands. Taking a step forward, he places his palm on my back and delivers a push that sends me stumbling inside the interrogation room, then follows suit, closing the door behind him.

"My apologies, John, but I had no choice. You were taking too long with your conversation and, frankly, it was getting nowhere," the DI says firmly. "Please take a seat, Mister Lowsley."

Stephen immediately shuffles towards the chair and drops down with an expression of obvious relief.

"Thank... you, Detective Inspector," he says slowly, rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes for a minute. "Sorry... don't feel... so good."

The doctor in me immediately takes over, and I'm near the table in an instant, reaching out and touching Stephen's forehead. His skin feels cold and clammy, and he shivers slightly, looking at me in confusion.

"Can you tell me your symptoms, Steve?" I ask, dropping my hand onto his wrist and taking his pulse. Elevated, as I had expected.

"Symptoms?" the cabbie frowns and starts rubbing his forehead again. "What..."

He obviously has trouble understanding me, so I rephrase my question. "Does it hurt anywhere, Steve?"

"No..," he abruptly claps his hand over his mouth and doubles over.

Lestrade reacts immediately, shoving a waste basket in Stephen's direction, and our witness throws up violently, his whole body shuddering with painful spasms.

When the fit passes, Stephen reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic bottle of Gatorade. Flipping the lid open, he gulps the liquid and then drops the empty bottle into the basket.

"Dizzy," he says weakly. "Nauseous. But I need to tell..."

"What you need, Stephen," I interrupt sternly "is to go to the hospital. Detective Inspector, would you be so kind as to call an ambulance?"

"Sure," Lestrade takes his mobile out of his pocket and starts punching in the number, but Stephen abruptly jerks up, vigorously shaking his head.

"No, no, no, no," he protests urgently. "Need to tell... Two guys, ordinary... blokes... Jeans... Leather... coats... Long hair... students... said... can't be late... meeting... the club... weird... name... Diogen..."

He cries in pain and grabs onto the edge of the table, trying to stay upright.

"Lestrade!" I yell, taking hold of Stephen's shoulders and trying to support him. "Ambulance, NOW!"

The cabbie grits his teeth, fighting the pain for a few moments, and then his body slumps down.

"Felt... being watched... today..," he whispers, finally giving up his struggle to stay conscious, and a few seconds later he goes limp in my arms.

Cursing a blue streak, I carefully lower my unresponsive burden onto the floor and turn to face Lestrade. The DI is already on the phone, barking instructions for the ambulance and giving me a reassuring nod.

I move Stephen into a foetal position and then settle in to wait for the paramedics, all the while trying to push away the thought that the case now definitely will gain a bunch of points on Sherlock's scale...

* * *

><p>Life sometimes has a wicked sense of humour. Like now, when upon our arrival to the hospital I discover that it's the same place where Sherlock is currently residing.<p>

More than that, as soon as I step out of the ambulance the familiar black car catches my eye, making me groan quietly. Great, as if this whole 'somebody is after me, cabbie version' incident wasn't enough, I now have Mycroft Holmes to confront.

"Wait a minute, isn't that..," Lestrade begins, stopping beside me.

"Exactly," I confirm, turning slightly to look at the DI. His eyes are following Stephen's stretcher as it being wheeled through the hospital's doors. "Now I can keep an eye on both of them."

"Speaking of which - shall we?" Lestrade gestures towards the entrance. I simply nod, starting to move forward, and the DI falls into step right behind me.

The stretcher with Stephen is nowhere to be seen, and we make a brief stop in front of the reception to enquire of his whereabouts. Lestrade prevents all questions about our identities by flashing his badge at the nurse, and a few seconds later we are being led down the corridor to the emergency unit.

"With all this mess I forgot to give the case file to you, by the way," the DI says suddenly, making me stumble a little in surprise. "Sherlock will give you hell about that, I imagine."

It takes a couple of moments for me to come with an adequate reply – Lestrade's sudden mind detour towards the case matters briefly throws me for a loop, but soon I realise that the police inspector is just continues to do his job. Stephen Lowsley is a part of the case now, and Lestrade is obviously trying to put the pieces together. It's a trait of a true professional – the ability to distance himself from the minor details in order to see the whole picture more clearly. I have such a trait myself; but believe me, sometimes it can be a bit annoying for those who have the misfortune to be near.

But, as I already mentioned, I'm a professional, and therefore I'm able to formulate a reply quite easily.

"Don't worry, Inspector; with the current key witness in the same hospital Sherlock can easily forgive you this omission."

"I bet he would," Lestrade grins, slowing down as we approach our destination. "But I make sure he gets the papers today."

"Thank you for being so considerate, Inspector," I answer with gratitude, eyeing the man in green scrubs who's waiting for us near the door to the emergency ward. "With Sherlock's knee and Stephen's condition I pretty much doubt that they will be able to meet soon, so these papers can be quite handy for now."

"I'm sorry, are you the ones who were with Mister Lowsley? Detective Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson?" the A&E doctor enquires as soon as we stop in front of him.

"That's right," Lestrade confirms, glancing at the medic's badge. "What can you tell us about his condition, Doctor Rogers?"

"He's still unconscious, but stable. We're running a series of tests in order to determine the reason of his illness. It says in the papers that he become sick during the interrogation... Can you tell me about the details?"

Lestrade nods briefly, turning his head to look at me, and I mouth 'Sherlock' at him. He nods again and faces the doctor.

"I think I can help you with that, Doctor Rogers," the DI says amiably. "But first of all we need to excuse Doctor Watson – his colleague is in this hospital too, and there's an urgent matter that needs to be settled immediately."

"No problem," Rogers shrugs his shoulders. "Could you please follow me, Detective Inspector? I think it would be more comfortable for us to talk somewhere private."

"Of course," Lestrade agrees, and the next moment I see them both turning around and walking away. But before they disappear around the corner, Lestrade, obviously remembering about his promise to me, gets his phone out of his pocket, dials the number and, after issuing a command, hangs up and gives me a little wave before turning the corner.

I'm left alone in the corridor with no other choice but to head for Sherlock's room. Sure thing, I have some news to tell him, but considering the absence of the case files and the presence of Mycroft's car near the hospital, I pretty much doubt that this news is going to satisfy Sherlock.

Ah well, as I was saying, there's no other choice, so I straighten my back, square my shoulders and start my journey to Sherlock's private room, hoping against hope that Mycroft is already left – and at the same time knowing that in this case there is no such thing as luck.

And sure enough, as soon as I step inside the semi-dark room, fooled by its peaceful quietness, there's a small movement in the far corner, and the painfully familiar voice of Mycroft Holmes breaks the silence.

"Good evening, John," there's another movement, a slight click, and a second later the corner of the room where Mycroft is sitting is flooded with the soft yellow light from a small lamp on the wall. "I believe we have a few things to discuss, don't you think?"

Right at that moment I finally realise that Sherlock's bed is empty. An instant feeling of dread settles at the pit of my stomach, but I manage to take myself under control almost instantly and meet Mycroft's cold blue gaze with confidence.

"Good evening, Mycroft," I answer, taking a few steps forward and sitting down in a chair a little to the left from Sherlock's brother, all the while managing not to break the eye contact and all the while having a view of the door out of the corner of my eye. "May I ask where Sherlock is?"

"X-ray," Mycroft answers curtly, and then tilts his head a little, continuing to survey me with half-closed eyes. "He should be back soon."

"Good," I allow myself to relax a little, leaning back in my chair. "You were saying something about a discussion?"

"Actually, I would rather wait for Sherlock's return, if you don't mind," the older Holmes replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "Contrary to your opinion, John, I'm not here to reprimand you; I'm here to ask for your and Sherlock's assistance."

"A matter of national importance?" I enquire, mimicking his pose.

"Precisely," he confirms, reaching for the briefcase and pulling out a yellow envelope with a "Top Secret" stamped on the upper right corner. "I think there's no need to remind you..."

"Absolutely," I nod, and Mycroft hands me the envelope, then leans back again and closes his eyes.

"Take your time, John," he says warmly, and I stifle a groan, realising that I just had been sweet-talked into accepting a case that Sherlock undoubtedly would refuse to take.

The corners of Mycroft's lips quirk up in a small smile. "You're getting better at it, John. And don't concern yourself with Sherlock's reaction. Let's just say that I have another piece of information that will undoubtedly pique his interest."

"From your mouth to God's ears, Mycroft," I mutter, opening the envelope and pulling out a thin manila folder.

Placing the folder on my lap, I open it and immediately feel my eyes widen.

"Interesting coincidence, isn't it?" Mycroft's voice pulls me back to the reality. "Seems like your little private case just become not so little, Doctor Watson. And Sherlock was absolutely right. She's definitely Italian."

I'm still trying to formulate a reply, when the door to the room opens and Sherlock is wheeled in. He immediately raises himself up on his elbows, surveys the room, narrows his eyes after seeing his brother, then his face visibly brightens when he notices me.

"Thank you for your help, I can manage the rest," my friend smiles briefly at the nurse, and she answers him with a warm smile, then turns and leaves the room.

Sherlock pushes himself up the rest of the way, and swings his legs over the edge of the gurney. "John?" he asks softly, quirking up an eyebrow.

"Of course, Sherlock," I hand the folder back to Mycroft, stand up and cross the room, stopping near Sherlock and slipping my right arm around his shoulders.

He nods gratefully and, in turn, slips his left arm around my waist and carefully slides down from the gurney, placing all his weight on his right leg and reaching out to grab my left arm with his right for support.

Mycroft pointedly clears his throat. "There's no point in being so stubborn, dear brother."

Sherlock shoots him a glare and squeezes my left arm slightly, thereby giving me the permission to start moving. It takes a couple of careful steps and a bit of manoeuvring to settle Sherlock on the bed, and he immediately pushes himself up, letting me rearrange the pillows so he can lean comfortably against the headboard.

"I thought my answer was evident, Mycroft," he snarls. "I already have a case, and can't spare the time for your... trivia," he air-quotes the last word for emphasis.

"Um..," I say uncomfortably, hating the role Mycroft managed to impose on me in this. "Actually, Sherlock, our case seems to be shifting onto Mycroft's board..."

Sherlock cuts me of with an impatient wave of his hand, then takes a couple of moments to scrutinise his sibling.

"Okay, I'm listening," he says finally, and I breathe the sign of relief.

The stalemate is broken, and the game is about to begin. And the best part in all this?

This time I sort of have an ace up my sleeve.


	9. Chapter 8: Too Many Coincidences

Mycroft simply extends his arm with the folder towards me. "John, if you would be so kind. Here's all the information I have at this moment, Sherlock. It will be quicker if you look through the papers. If you have any questions, I will be happy to clarify."

Sherlock pointedly shifts his gaze, fixing his eyes on me, and waves a hand in his brother's direction. "John."

The unspoken command is quite clear. Fetch, John. No pleasant words, just a plain order of a man expecting immediate obedience.

Well, you called the whole thing off, John, remember? And Sherlock's right, you were pretty content with being his assistant since the moment you met.

Then why I can't stop thinking about it, dammit?

"John?"

Softer now. Questioning.

"John, please."

A polite request. I practically feel the warmth of his gaze seeping into me. Focus, John, for now, it's the case that matters. Anything else can be sorted out later.

"Of course, Sherlock," I cross the short distance towards Mycroft's chair, take the folder from his hand – not failing to notice a knowing smile he gives me in the process – and make my way back to Sherlock's bed.

"Thank you, John," my friend takes the folder and pats the bed. "Sit down. You obviously had a chance to see those papers, so I could do with your expertise."

Accepting his invitation, I settle on the edge of the bed. "We still don't have an autopsy report, Sherlock, but Lestrade promised to send the papers. Without them my expertise for now is pointless."

Sherlock's eyes immediately focus on me. "As I recall, I sent you to Scotland Yard specifically to retrieve those papers."

"Yeah, well…" I shrug my shoulders. "There were some complications."

"Complications," Sherlock repeats calmly. "And what KIND of complications we are talking about?"

From the corner of my eye I see Mycroft rising from his seat and hooking his umbrella over the crook of his elbow.

"That would be the unfortunate predicament of Mr. Stephen Lowsley, Sherlock. Is my information accurate, John?" Sherlock's brother enquires politely, causing an immediate spark of curiosity in my friend's eyes. "Well, dear brother, I must take my leave. With John and Inspector Lestrade here, you will certainly have no trouble in acquiring all the necessary information. And it would be marvelous if you kept me informed… Don't make me resort to desperate measures; you know how I despise that."

Sherlock acknowledges his words with a brief nod and an impatient wave of his hand, but his eyes remain fixed on me, and the spark of curiosity is on the brink of transforming into a wildfire.

"Goodbye, John," Mycroft says, crossing the room and opening the door. "Feel free to visit the Diogenes club, if Sherlock encounters any problems during the investigation."

Mycroft's remark reminds me about that cryptic bit of Stephen's confession, but mentioning that now certainly isn't the best decision. For Sherlock it will be another added puzzle; but, considering the fact of Mycroft showing his interest in seemingly ordinary case, it would be wise to discuss the cabbie's words with him first.

"Goodbye, Mycroft," I reply, still holding Sherlock's gaze. "And thanks for the invitation, it might come in handy."

The older Holmes hums in satisfaction and leaves the room. The moment the door closes behind him, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Stephen Lowsley and Lestrade are here, in the hospital. I think you should bring me up to date, John."

"Well…" I pause for a bit, quickly shifting through the informatiom I have at this momment. Better not mention the bit about the Diogenes club – at least, not now. "Lestrade's team checked the CCTV records from the cameras near the Service Station. The van was driven there by two blokes, who took a cab after that. Stephen is the cabbie who drove them…"

"Where to?" Sherlock asks immediately, and I gather my wits to tell him a lie… Well, not exactly a lie – it's more like concealing the truth, actually; but in this situation it's almost the same.

"Don't know yet, Sherlock – he passed out before he had time to answer. Looks like he was poisoned, so somebody is probably trying to cover the tracks."

My friend steeples his hands in front of his lips. "That explains Lestrade's presence. And what about our witness' condition?"

"We brought him to the A&E, and I left Lestrade talking with Doctor Rogers. He said they are running a series of tests to determine the reason of his illness…"

"But you said that he was poisoned," Sherlock interrupts again. "What makes you think that?"

"He was sweating, disoriented… the skin pale and clammy. And he threw up in the interrogation room. The symptoms are clear."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarks, lowering his hands and lacing his fingers together. "So somebody is taking desperate measures to prevent him from giving a statement…"

"Yes, he said he felt being watched the whole day," I confirm. "But that's not all, Sherlock. When I stormed from the crime scene earlier, I took a cab. And guess who the driver was?"

My friend narrows his eyes. "Too many coincidences, John."

"My point exactly," I agree. "And besides, he told me then that I had saved his family after a car accident a year ago."

"And you don't remember it, as I presume?" there's a thoughtful expression on my friend's face, and I swear I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning. "Of course not, otherwise you wouldn't bring this subject up. So, if he deliberately waited for you…"

"But he couldn't have known that there's going to be an argument between us," I object immediately.

"You're right, he couldn't," Sherlock nods, unlaces his hands and starts drumming the fingers of the right one on the folder. "Which means that he probably had a few alternative options. And that, in turn, means he's involved – one way or another."

To tell the truth, I had my doubts about this whole "saving my family" thing. It just hadn't felt right. But apart from this small detail, Stephen didn't raise in me any other suspicions, so… Yeah, I was pretty much confused.

"John," there's a slight edge in Sherlock's voice, as it breaks into my thoughts. "Your attention is slipping, and this is not acceptable. Go home, and get some sleep. In your current condition you are useless."

_Mr. Subtlety in all his glory,_ my inner voice supplies sarcastically. But actually, Sherlock is right: there are just too many events for one day, I need a rest.

"With pleasure, Sherlock," I reply, getting on my feet. "After all, I think I've done my share of legwork today. You have materials from your brother, plus Lestrade promised to send you the autopsy report… Plenty of information for you to consider."

Sherlock, by this moment already engrossed in the perusing of the material in the folder, swiftly raises his head and at the same moment reaches towards the bedside table for his phone. "As I recall, you mentioned Lestrade's being here?" he enquires, his thumbs posed over the keys.

"Yes, he accompanied our witness to the hospital, and we ended here," I confirm. "Why?"

"Information," he replies succinctly, and, lowering his gaze, starts typing. "I need to systematise it for us while you'll be away."

"Well, at least it means you're not going to do anything stupid while he's here," I comment, and Sherlock immediately wrinkles his nose. "And don't even try to deny that you were planning to sneak into the witness' room as soon as I will leave."

"Not right away, yet you're correct," Sherlock confirms without batting an eyelid. "However, considering the state of my knee, Lestrade's presence is an added bonus."

This brings me back to the subject of the x-ray. "Speaking of your knee…"

Sherlock finishes typing and hits "Send", then places this phone back on the bedside table. "Don't worry, nothing's broken although you've managed to crack a bone. Tissue damage, torn ligaments, but they are positive they can discharge me tomorrow. I told them that you're perfectly qualified to provide all necessary care while I'm staying at home."

"Of course you did," I mutter, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow; but my attempt at explanation is cut at the beginning by Lestrade appearing in the room.

My friend's gaze travels from me to the DI, and zeroes in on the folder he holds in his hand. This is my clue to leave: Sherlock has shifted into his "case mode", and now Lestrade is here, in case Sherlock needs someone to think at aloud. And our Inspector, in contrast to me, has a habit to question every one of Sherlock's statements – which, in turn, gives my friend an opportunity to, shall I say, bask in the spotlight. And besides, Sherlock secretly regards Lestrade as his assiduous apprentice; he'll deny it with vehemence, but if you bother to look close enough, you'll see a tiny glimmer of satisfaction hidden behind that piercing gaze. I saw it from the beginning, and eventually, Lestrade managed to notice it too, and since then their working relationship has become more effective and less formal.

Sherlock, meanwhile, beckons Lestrade closer and after that points at the chair I had just vacated. "Impeccable timing, Inspector. I'm trying to send John home, and with you here to keep me company for a while, he can depart with a clear conscience."

Lestrade, having spared me a quick once-over on his way to the chair, nods his agreement. "Sherlock's right, John. You look tired, and nothing is preventing you from having a bit of rest. For this night, anyway. Stephen's condition is stable, but he's still not out of the woods yet; they gave him a mild sedative to help him sleep, and he's kept under 24 hour observation. But there's a possibility we can talk to him tomorrow afternoon. So go, and have a good night's rest," he finishes and, waving me goodbye, settles into the chair.

Sherlock catches my gaze, raises an eyebrow and then favours me with the warm smile. "You've heard the Inspector, John. I'm perfectly okay, now shoo and don't even try to come back before midday."

I roll my eyes and Sherlock, still smiling, narrows his slightly. That's my friend in a nutshell: sugar-coated insults and a righteous indignation if you decide to take offence and bother to show it.

But I had enough time to learn my lessons, so I answer with a smile of my own and open the door. "Will do, Sherlock. Have fun and see you tomorrow!"

With that I leave the room, closing the door behind me. It takes me a few minutes to walk out of the hospital, and the moment I step out onto the pavement I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Mycroft's number.

He picks up on the second ring.

"I was expecting your call, John," he begins without preamble. "I have some information regarding Mr. Lowsley at my disposal that could interest you."

His voice is calm and confident, as always, but for some reason it sets off an alarm in my head. Well, to be honest, the whole incident with Stephen is… strange, but Mycroft's words for some reason send an unpleasant shiver running down my spine.

"What kind of information?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

"The one that certainly shouldn't be spoken about on the phone, John," Mycroft says firmly. "I'll be in the vicinity of Baker street tomorrow presumably at 10 a.m. Would it be convenient if I pay you a visit?"

"Of course. And I have some information too… Don't think you'll like it, though."

Mycroft hums thoughtfully. "And that information has something to do with your current case, I presume?"

"Definitely. I think it..," I begin, but Mycroft cuts in, not letting me finish.

"Not on the phone, John. Tomorrow morning. And I strongly advise you to get some rest."

"You're not the first to say that to me today. Goodnight, Mycroft. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, John," with this he hangs up, and I cross the pavement to flag down a taxi.

Turns out that Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft were right: the moment I slide onto the car seat I feel the fatigue starting to take over my body. Suddenly there's the overwhelming urge to curl up on this seat and sleep for ages, and it takes all my remaining power not to succumb to this craving.

"221B Baker Street," I say to the cabbie, and then, leaning back, add drowsily, "Please wake me up when we get there."

His answering 'Will do, sir" is the last thing I hear before sleep finally overpowers me.

* * *

><p>I wake up with somebody's hand on my shoulder and careful, but insisted nudging.<p>

"You asked me to wake you when we got to your address," the driver says politely. "We're here, sir."

I blink my eyes open and, seeing that, the cabbie pulls back, a friendly smile lifting the corners of his lips. But there's a familiar spark of curiosity in his eyes, and my mind, while still on its way to acceptable lucidity, makes an immediate connection.

Damn, not again.

Nodding quickly, I duck my head and start to climb out of the car, hoping against hope that he wouldn't…

"Sir...," he begins uncertainly and I falter half-way with my left foot on the ground and my left hand gripping the upper part of the car door. Then I take myself under control, finish my task and, with both feet on the solid ground, turn to face him.

"Yes, you are not mistaken," I answer patiently. "I am Doctor Watson, colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Anything else you want to know?"

A slight blush creeps onto his cheeks; he lowers his gaze and reaches into his pocket. I feel my body tense automatically, but, after a moment of hesitation, he produces his card.

"No, Doctor Watson, not at all," he smiles warmly and holds his hand with the card out. "I just wanted to say that I'm honoured… Here's my card, if you require my assistance."

Mentally giving an eye roll, I reach out and take his card. Déjà vu.

"You and Mr Holmes, you're legends," the fellow continues. "I heard so much about you, but I couldn't imagine...," he falters. "Sorry, it's just… Pleased to meet you, sir."

Glancing at the card briefly, I pocket it. "Me too, William. Thank you."

"Just Bill, sir… Doctor Watson. Have a nice evening."

"Of course, Bill. And… likewise. Goodbye!"

"Goodbye, sir," he closes the passenger's door, returns to his seat, waves at me, closes his door and drives away.

Shaking my head, I cross the distance towards our front door, slide the key into the lock, open the door…

Only to find myself face to face with Mrs Hudson, looking extremely worried and holding in her hands a pillow and a bloodied cloth.

Damn.

Taking a deep breath, I start speaking before she manages to open her mouth.

"Good evening, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is in the hospital, there's been an accident and he damaged his knee. Nothing serious, though: he's going to wear a brace on his knee for some time, but he'll be home tomorrow by the evening."

Our landlady's expression softens. "Thank God, I was starting to fear the worst. And how are you feeling, John? You don't look good, to be honest."

"You're the fourth person to say that to me today, Mrs Hudson," I flash her warm, but tired smile. "And you're right – I'm dead on my feet."

She answers me with a mischievous smile. "Then I have something that would be perfect for you, my dear. A nice cup of herbal tea – and you're going to sleep like a baby. And some apple pie," she winks at me.

"Sounds perfect, Mrs Hudson," taking my coat off, I hang it on the accustomed hook. Then I take the pillow and the cloth from her hands. "Let me just take care of these, and I'll be back with you shortly."

"Of course, my dear," she pats my arm, smiling, and then turns and heads towards the door of her flat. "But don't be long, or the tea is going to be cold. And we can't have that, can we?"

"Of course we can't," I agree with a smile, and, turning around, start to climb the stairs. "See you soon!"

"You'd better," she answers, and I hear the sound of the closing door.

A quiet evening and a full night's sleep. Just what the doctor ordered.


	10. Chapter 9: A New Acqaintance

The morning starts out with a tentative knock on my bedroom door, and I roll over in my bed, squinting at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

10 A.M. Exactly when Mycroft promised to drop in for our conversation. Well done, John.

Getting out of bed in one swift move and tugging my dressing gown from the chair, I quickly pull it on and open the door. Fortunately, instead of Sherlock's brother whom I fully expect to see, I discover at the top of the stairs our extremely worried and flustered landlady.

"John," she says anxiously. "There's…"

"Mycroft waiting downstairs, I know," I finish her phrase, stepping out of my room and closing the door. "Sorry for not telling you about his planned visit yesterday, I was too tired and totally forgot about it."

"Yes, Mycroft mentioned that you probably had too much excitement yesterday. But there's one more thing, John: he is not alone. He came with another man, but when I asked for his name, he answered that it doesn't matter."

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'll take care of that," I reassure her and begin to go down the stairs. Mycroft never does anything without a reason, so if he deemed necessary to bring company, it must be something serious. So all I need to do now is to find out what he and his mysterious companion have to say.

But first things first: before my meeting with Mycroft I need to see Mrs Hudson to the doorway of her flat. She's our guardian angel, and if Sherlock's older brother has something important to tell, it would be better for her not to know that. Sometimes Sherlock and I become very dangerous tenants: there were a few times when our landlady's life was put in jeopardy because of some aspects in our cases, and we swore to protect her as best as we can. That's why I now pass the door to our living room without stopping and escort Mrs Hudson downstairs, promising en route to join her for breakfast after my conversation with Mycroft.

"Don't let him get you into trouble, John," Mrs Hudson says worriedly, standing in the doorway. "Sherlock was hurt already, and I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I promise to be very careful," I reply warmly. "Besides, whatever he got planned would definitely have to wait. I accepted your breakfast offer, after all, and I can't go back on my word."

"I'm glad to hear that, John," she gives me her most encouraging smile. "Well, in that case, don't let me keep you any longer. Go talk with Mycroft, and come back soon."

"Will do, Mrs Hudson!" I call out, turning around and making my way back to the stairs. Time to find out what Mycroft has to say.

He is waiting for me in the living room and, as I expected, he's taken up Sherlock's armchair. I do my best to hold back the laugh – sometimes those two's sibling rivalry looks quite funny. But Holmes brothers also have another common trait – they are very observant, so, after giving me a quick once-over, Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

"Something you wish to say, John?" the older Holmes enquires calmly, twisting around the handle of his ever-present umbrella with his elegant fingers.

"Do I have to?" I reply, turning and heading into the kitchen: Mycroft's presence in our room doesn't mean I should skip breakfast. "I thought we were past the point of pep-talks. Coffee or tea?"

"You're making a remarkable progress in adapting my brother's habits, John," Mycroft remarks, leaning his umbrella against the armrest and letting go of its handle. "As for your offer, I'm not particularly thirsty, but I think someone here would certainly appreciate it."

"You know full well that Sherlock's way of life is hard to resist," I counter, reaching for the kettle. "Luckily, he hasn't managed to eliminate my sense of hospitality, so if your 'someone' would be so kind to specify his preferences…"

"A cup of tea would be excellent," Mycroft's mysterious companion joins our conversation, and I stop in half-movement, instantly recognising the man's voice. It's certainly him, there's no doubt about that, although it feels weird to find myself in the same situation as yesterday.

As if sensing my sudden uneasiness, the owner of the voice starts to move towards the kitchen – I can hear his footsteps coming closer. When he stops near the sliding door, I finally risk a glance in his direction. Apart from the tailored suit and trendy haircut, he looks exactly the same as yesterday – with an unmistakable sparkle in his eyes and a friendly, warm smile that lights his entire face.

"Good morning, Bill," I say simply. "If that's your real name, of course."

"I owe you an apology, Doctor Watson," the pseudo-cabbie says softly. "I'm not a taxi driver, but as for my name – it's real. William Deverough at your service."

Acknowledging his words with a curt nod, I turn away and resume preparing tea. "If you aren't a taxi driver, who are you, then? I'm just curious, so if you aren't at liberty to answer…"

"On the contrary," he interrupts, stepping into the kitchen and making his way towards me. "I am the one of many employees of Mr Holmes. Our yesterday meeting wasn't incidental: it was part of the mission I was assigned to. The result of the other part is on the table in your living room. It's a file, and I think it would be quite useful for you to know the information…"

"William," Mycroft interrupts, a note of warning heard clear in his low voice. "Although I appreciate your eagerness to share the results of your work, it should be done in a proper way. Therefore I suggest doing it after your honestly earned cup of tea."

"Of course, Mr Holmes,"William answers quickly. "Can I be of assistance, Doctor Watson?"

"Thanks for the offer, Bill, but I'm nearly done," I risk using his short name and he doesn't seem to mind. "Take a seat, I'll be with you shortly."

William hesitates for a moment, and Mycroft pointedly clears his throat, causing his subordinate to practically snap to attention and then quickly retreat to the living room. Unseen for both of them, I allow an amused smile to touch my lips. I'm quite used to Mycroft's commanding manner with his people, but each time when I witness it, I can't shake off the comparison to eager puppies which are ready to do anything to please their master. It's kind of ironic, really, because most of those people are very intelligent and self-sufficient, and to see them willingly abase themselves… I'm smiling, yes, but it's a smile with a touch of sadness hidden behind it.

But enough thinking: I have tea to serve, and a conversation to participate in, so, after pouring hot water into a teapot, I fetch a tea-tray and place there said teapot, two cups, a sugar bowl, a milk jug and a plate with biscuits. First part of my plan nearly finished, all I need to do now is carry the tray into our living room. Which I proceed to do, noticing on my way to the living room table that William hasn't dared to sit, and is standing near the left window, looking on the street below.

"There's no need to be so wired, Bill," I say amiably, snapping the blond out of his reverie. "You are my guest, so feel free to take a seat wherever you like."

William turns to face me, and Mycroft snorts quietly. "Undermining my authority, John? My brother should be proud of you."

"Just trying to be a good host," I reply, placing the tea-tray on the table. "Bill?"

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," he moves toward the table and reaches for his cup.

"Just John," I correct warmly. "If we are going to work together, call me John."

"Of course, John," carefully holding the cup in one hand, he pulls the chair out with the other and sits down. "And yes, I hope to be useful for you in your investigation."

I, in turn, take a seat across from him and reach for the other cup. "Let's enjoy our tea before getting down to business, Bill."

"Agreed," he nods for emphasis and takes a biscuit from the plate. "I have information that might be of interest for you."

Right at this moment Mycroft, who was watching us silently, raises up to his feet. "Apologies, John, but I must take my leave now. Mr Deverough has all the information you might need for solving this case. As for the topic which you wanted to discuss with me, rest assured that I'm already aware of everything."

"Somehow I don't doubt it," I mutter, and Bill does his best to hide a grin.

Mycroft politely pretends not to notice our reaction. "Have a nice day, gentlemen, and please keep me updated."

"Will do, Mycroft," I reassure, getting up and walking towards the door. "I hope you don't mind me walking you to the door; I still have something to tell you."

"By all means, John," the older Holmes replies, hooking the handle of his trademark umbrella over his arm and striding to the stair. I follow him into the hall downstairs and stop near the front door. Mycroft also stops and looks at me in inquiry, and taking a deep breath, I fearlessly plunge ahead.

"You said you already know what I was going to tell you, so I'm not going to waste your time repeating it. But I need to ask you something: assuming that someone in Diogenes club is involved, are you safe?"

The only indication of the older Holmes' surprise is a slight quirk of one eyebrow. "What makes you think that I can be in any sort of danger, John?"

"No reason," I say quickly, already berating myself for being so overprotective. Mycroft always has everything under control; why the current situation should be different?

Seeing my obvious embarrassment, Sherlock's older brother surprises me by reaching out and briefly touching my arm in a clear gesture of support. "I appreciate your concern, John, but you have nothing to worry about, I assure you."

"That's good to hear," I smile and open the front door, noticing two cars parked nearby: one is Mycroft's usual black sedan, and the other is a London cab – Bill's, I guess.

As if reading my thoughts, Mycroft nods towards the car in question. "Your personal means of conveyance for the time being, John. My brother is not the only one who has privileges."

"I probably should be asking you why you're so eager to help, but knowing your relationship with Sherlock… Well, thanks, anyway," I pointedly refuse to look at Mycroft, because saying such things in his presence can lead to dire consequences.

The older Holmes, however, surprises me with a warm and totally unexpected chuckle. "You are welcome, John. And I have my reasons to be helping you – ones that I'm not at liberty to disclose yet. But they will be revealed later, I can promise you that."

"That's good to hear," I reply, stepping out of Mycroft's way. Sherlock's brother takes the hint and steps out into the street. "Well, thanks for visiting. We'll keep you posted."

"Excellent, John," Mycroft says, already on his way to the black sedan. "Goodbye and I hope to hear from you soon."

"Goodbye, Mycroft," I call after him and remain standing in the doorway until the black car disappears around the corner. As soon as it happens, I close the door and go upstairs into our living room.

Meanwhile, Deverough has already moved onto the sofa, and now sits waiting for me with a blue leather folder in his hands.

"Mr H took his time," William remarks, opening the folder. "As I understand, we ought to go to the hospital soon, so how about taking a look at these papers, John?"

"Sure," I agree, making a beeline towards the living room table. Papers or not, breakfast always comes first, and I still haven't had it. Which is obviously not the case for William: his half of the table is empty and the cup, which I brought for him, is nowhere to be seen.

As if reading my mind, Mycroft's employee hastens to explain. "I hope you don't mind, John. I took a liberty to wash my cup, and left it near the sink."

"Why should I mind?" I reach for my cup and carry it with me to the sofa, not forgetting to grab a handful of biscuits. "Comparing to what I usually have, it's almost a luxury."

Politely leaving my last phrase unanswered, William waits for me to settle down beside him and places the folder in my free hand. "He doesn't have a family, John. He lied to you, probably because he wanted to get you on his side."

"Really?" I retort sarcastically. "And after that poisoned himself to make everything look more convincing. Is that what you are trying to say?"

"No," he answers calmly. "I don't think he's that clever. I'm just saying that his level of involvement in this case is much deeper than he prefers to show."

"Life with Sherlock taught me not to jump to conclusions," I reply, opening the folder and quickly scanning the page within. "Fortunately, Steve is in the same hospital as Sherlock, so asking him won't be a problem."

As soon as I mention Sherlock, my phone starts chirping in my pocket and I pull it out, expecting to see my flatmate's name on the screen, as if he somehow managed to hear what I just said. Needless to say, I'm not disappointed - Sherlock's message comes up, short and demanding as usual:

'Need you here ASAP. Lestrade couldn't protect our witness. SH'

Suspecting the worst, I key out the question:

'Is he alive? JW'

Sherlock's answer comes almost immediately:

'Witness – yes, but he's useless. Lestrade – yes, regrettably. SH'

Rolling my eyes upon imagining what Greg must have heard from my friend, I reply: 'On my way. JW' and, closing the folder, rise up from the sofa.

"Looks like it's time for your driving talent to come into play, Bill," I reply, noticing the questioning gaze of my new acquaintance. "There seem to be a problem at the hospital, and Sherlock's demanding my presence."

"Of course, John," William gets up gracefully and strides towards the doorway. "Your wish is my command."

Making a quick detour into the bathroom and my room, I catch up with him, and we descend the stairs. There's a short pause in the hall when I stop to grab my coat, and after that we're off to the street and into the car, heading to the hospital.

The journey doesn't take long: William is an excellent driver, and soon I'm getting out of the taxi near the hospital entrance.

William, however, stays in the car and rolls down the driver's window as I turn around to look at him.

"I'll wait for you here, if you don't mind," he answers my unspoken question. "Mr H told me about his younger brother, and I don't think it would be wise for me to interfere with your business right now."

"Yes, I think that would be the best decision," I agree. "I hope we won't be long."

He simply nods, and the window goes up. I turn around and walk to the door, preparing to deal with whatever awaits me in Sherlock's hospital room.

Needless to say, I'm not disappointed: Sherlock's irritated voice is heard even in the corridor, and Greg, it seems, is no less agitated.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, open the door and walk in. Sherlock and Greg simultaneously turn their heads in my direction, then both start talking at the same time, which makes understanding them almost impossible.

"Will you please both shut up?" I say loudly, trying to cut through their indignant sqabble. It works, and, using the abrupt silence, I launch the next question, "Greg, what's happened?"

Sherlock huffs in annoyance and turns away, doing his best to look offended, and Greg looks away, clearly uncomfortable with what he is about to say.

"There was a successful assassination attempt, John," the DI finally replies. "A sniper's bullet through the window. Mr Lowsley is alive, but his brain is seriously damaged," Greg pauses, "Basically he's in a vegetable state, John. We contacted his family, and now waiting for their permission to switch off the life support."

Greg falls silent, and Sherlock turns to look at me, raising his eyebrow. "I hope you don't think Mycroft's yesterday visit was incidental, John? Something is definitely happening in his hive, and it's time to thoroughly shake it up."


End file.
